


Denerim and Rainesfere

by Reyavie



Series: Of a lady tabris like any other [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Friendship, One-Shot Collection, Romance, Slow Burn, being a warden is awful half the time, changing points of view, dog is awesome and i will not let anyone say otherwise, elf being stubborn, seriously slow burn of slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 39,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9280160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyavie/pseuds/Reyavie
Summary: Humans mean little to her bar indifference - maybe hatred, maybe disgust - but this man just simply refuses to be anything less than decent.





	1. lord.

**Author's Note:**

> Reupload of an old story which I felt needed some slight edits here and there before throwing it on the site. It is a one-shot collection, following a table prompt from livejournal which more or less follows the plot of the game but attempting to focus on lesser elements.

001\. _lord_.

xxxXXXxxx

Tasha enters the Chantry with her head held high, unbowed and unashamed, even if her hair does tend to hide half of it along with the tattoos she holds so much pride in. In any other place, any other situation, she knows the attendants would stare at her ears. Probably wonder just how an _elf_ of all things managed to get good armor, decent shoes and just why _it_ is carrying weapons. They would be afraid. They would fear her. Maker knows she wouldn't exactly mind.

But the outside is filled with fear of another kind. It fills the atmosphere, makes it weight on both hearts and minds, almost on the bodies themselves. Tasha has been in Ostagar. She knows this kind of fear well enough to look at it like one would look at a dangerous companion. Carefully, cautious and never ignoring it. But the people in the village are used enough to be protected, they cannot deal that well with death sitting at a corner.

It makes them ignore the elf in favor of the warden and she doesn’t bother to complain. In fact, it's amazing how she's not complaining about a thing, especially considering what she's there to do. In her mind, Tasha replays every word Alistair has told her prior to this meeting. The Arl can help them. The Arl is sick. They need their help. The village is in danger. They cannot get help unless they help first. They need to speak with the ruler. The Arl's brother.

And so she pushes her disgust aside, all the things years spent in the Alienage have taught her – _how do they dare to ask her for help? Her of all things? Does her armor makes her less of an elf? Her sword? Closed streets, closed gates, not people, just pets, blood because one spoke out loud when not required. Nobles can do anything they wish. No repercussions._ – and agrees to follow the boy. Tom?

She doesn't want to be here. Redcliffe, Ostagar, the Chantry, they matter little. She just has to. The Alienage also taught her that, the value of duty and sacrifice for a good larger than our own. It is why she keeps her hate in this tiny corner of her heart, stashing it away where she can't feel it as strongly even as her teeth tightly crisp against each other. Because every politeness tastes like a lie on her lips and she wishes she could leave for Denerim that exact instant. Wishes and wishes some more before pushing it aside as a children's dream. _Later. All for later_.

Her boots yell loudly in the silent whispers of the worship house. There is chanting, of course, but even it seems muted as if also afraid. And between the villagers she walks, keeping her eyes straight, not left nor right and keeping herself conscious of two things alone. Her companions – _friends?_ – are behind her. Alistair, somber as he never is. Wynne. Leliana. If she focus on them more, she won't focus on how much she doesn't want to do this.

He is tall, is the first thing she notices. Tall, light skin, light hair – darker than Alistair's, she notices absently – longsword on his shoulder, shield in the other and the clothing which is far too rich, far too beautiful to be used by anything less than a _noble_. And this time, Tasha sinks her teeth against her lower lip because there is scorn pushing her expression into a grimace and she cannot do anything else other than being courteous. This is not Vaughan _and he is not reaching for her_ and they need him _and he is not touching her cousin_ and there is no hatred here _but her sword hates and she hates him so much_.

That's when her bitterness tastes a little bit too real, too liquid while it flows down her throat. That's fine too; it awakes her from her hatred.

He is not Vaughan.

"It's... Thomas, yes? And who are these people with you? They're obviously not simple travelers."

A soothing voice. He has a soothing voice, slightly deep without being overbearing. It sounds nothing like Vaughan's. The assurance is there, the power which the other wielded so carelessly. There's almost respect as he talks to the boy, some she probably hadn't used when speaking to the same person – _Thomas_.

For the first time, Tasha allows Alistair to take over the situation, listen carefully to this Bann in search of more differences. Maker knows she will try to do the right thing but what if there is blood on his hands too? What if she returns to Denerim having helped a murderer? She would sooner leave that village, sooner leave them all. Being a Grey Warden means having no choice, Duncan taught her, but being herself, being an elf, means having freedom. She would leave. She knows she would. And so, Tasha observes before being forced.

He seems kind. He seems happy when seeing Alistair, his nephew - _sent to a chantry because he was occupying too much space in his adoptive father's heart_ \- He is glad they lived.

"Indeed," his voice filters through, that odd calming tone touching even her wayward thoughts. "Loghain would have us believe all Grey Wardens died along with my nephew, amongst other things."

He knows the truth. Tasha knows she still wishes turning around and leaving would be possible, that she doesn't want to do this or be in this place.

"No. Not all of us died." But she does it anyway because there is no other choice.

Her hand rises to push her fringe aside, behind her pointed ear, expression neutral and covered in tattoos no human would bother to draw on skin. _Elf and Warden_ , she almost dares, _can you see? Can you accept?_

Teagan grants her a small smile and there's no disgust. There is only worry – _not for her_ – tiredness – _the attacks taking their toll_ – and fear – _not of her -_ but not disgust.

Because there is no other choice.

"So... you are a Grey Warden as well? A pleasure to meet you." Challenge accepted, it is written in the sidelines. "I wish it were under better circumstances."

The more the Bann speaks, the more differences she grasps between two nobles. Her teeth release their captive, the blood stops trickling down her throat and she starts listening, starts talking to this man who is actually a Lord instead of a parody, who is worried with another's life and not using them as he sees fit. She doesn't see Vaughan.

"I have a feeling tonight's assault will be the worst yet. Alistair, I hate to ask, but I desperately need the help of you and your friends."

When he looks at her, begs for her help without words, Tasha sees a Lord.

He is not the man she killed.

"We will help you," she says, gifting him the first semblance of a smile since entering Recliffe. Giving this human a beginning which isn't haunted by the past. And oddly enough, she never dreams of her wedding after that day.

 


	2. west.

002\. _West_

**xxxXXXxxx**

She is used to rule her life by the Sun. When it rises, when it sets, when it holds in midday, hot above her head as she runs up and down the streets, when it hides and there's rain pouring, washing the muddy stones of the Alienage. It is her watch, her guidance, her light and ever-present aid. Perhaps it is part of her race's blood but the woman is certain she would love it as much even if born human. She is used to have it ruling over her routine and welcomes it every day. Never has it represented anything like threat and fear.

It is an unwelcome discovery when it does. And one not easily accepted.

Tasha doesn't even pretend to wish anything bar solitude once the realization takes place. She rises without asking for permission, a hand moving to request the others to stay behind before leaving the Chantry. There is no need for chants, for hymns which don't belong to her kind, which are sung solely to humans.

 _At Shartan's word, the sky grew black with arrows,_ Tasha hums under her breath as she pushes the door lightly behind her, _a great hymn rose over Valarian Fields gladly proclaiming those who had been slaves were now free._ The sole verse the Chant keeps of the once immortal people. Dissonant verse, it is called, pure heresy now. The elf cannot deny that is probably why she adores it so. It speaks of freedom, of strength, of the heroes of old who were so much mightier than her. True, no hymn can settle her heart in this moment but this is just her little touch of vengeance, whispered in between their offers to their great Lady. Andraste did not win _alone_.

But no one listens – _no one remembers_ \- so the elf simply slips away, ignores everyone else as she turns west and sits down against the walls of the building.

 _Tick tack_ , she hears in her mind. Second after second, the time passes and danger knocks at their door. All the while, sunlight hits her face almost mockingly, warming while frightening her at the same time. It keeps lowering, bringing the night closer while thoroughly ignoring her silent pleas to keep still. The Castle's Gates will open then and Redcliffe will be left for horror and chaos. Even in the warmth of the light, her very bones shudder with that reality.

Ten minutes, if that much, pass before the door of the Chantry is opened behind her and closed almost silently. It is probably just some villager, so Tasha doesn't bother to look. Her eyes are closed and her face is raised, receiving the last rays of light of that day. Even when someone takes a place at her side and her body stiffens, pushes slightly to the opposite side by pure reaction, the young woman fails to react. Whoever searches her company remains silent, respectful. It is enough for her to relax once more. _Wynne, then_. Wynne is one of the few who can remain in contemplation without being bodily forced to. Maker knows Alistair would need a gag and a tremendous amount of chains.

How did he ever survive inside a chantry, she asks herself absently, her mind choosing the new pattern of thought with relief. It _is_ one of those things which seems too impossible to be real, it continues earnestly, a bit like her being a Grey Warden of all things, or having some who follow and obey her without complains. Alright, Morrigan aside. The mere thought brings amusement to her mind and a smile to her lips. For that brief moment, fear is pushed aside.

Wynne doesn't speak or comment on her momentary good mood. She doesn't move. Her body is close enough for Tasha to feel, the faintest trace of fabric rubbing against the bare skin of her arm. It slips every now and then, as if following a pattern of breathing, but always returns. It is odd in its comfort because, until that moment, Tasha wasn't aware she needed it. Stability and warmth against her, both take hold of her fear instead of just pushing it to the side. Instead, they slip it where the elf can't find it. This time, the thought is so _weird_ , her foolishness so large that Tasha almost laughs even as her eyes are kept tightly shut.

It is even stranger but, this way, the Sun is halted, the comfort doesn't leave and she's not afraid yet. In her mind, the Alienage is crowded. She hears whispers, the people wandering back and forth, the windows closing to welcome the night. If she struggles a little, she can even hear a few dogs barking at the rats which persist in getting into every bag of grain they manage to purchase. Shianni is by her side - or maybe Soris - ready to comment on how bad their upcoming marriage will be and of course he'll get a shrew or a witch. Maybe of the wilds, he'll be a frog and the ugly bat's dinner even before they consummate anything. But then again, he could have been pushed into Elva and Maker knows that would be worse – _he is shaking his head now, side to side, the idea simply preposterous –_ He would have to live his whole life by her. Suicide would be the only option.

This time the elf does laugh, almost feeling his shudder rippling through her body. Maybe she shouldn't be amused– no, she definitely shouldn't – but then again, she did try to be slightly nice to the other woman. Sort of. If one gets bitten when holding out a hand, it shouldn't give it again, her father taught her. Except Cyrion was probably speaking of actual _dogs_ but what can she do if the comparison seems too good to be put discarded?

There is another smile on her lips when the warmth begins receding. Her amusement leaves with it, the last moment she gives herself following closely as the Alienage is stored safely in her memories. Then, and only then, does she open her eyes to see the sun sinking into the West. It could be waving goodbye but, for some reason, Tasha can swear it seems more like a _see you later_.

It is when Wynne finally moves by her side. Only it isn't exactly Wynne. Or at all, actually.

It's Teagan.

Waiting until she moved, until she rose from the floor, until she even noticed it wasn't the older woman but the human noble who was keeping her company in her worries. The elf can almost see his mind wandering on dark thoughts, eyes straying from her to the last rays of light, from the chantry and back again. From this, Tasha learns he is just as scared as she is.

"I like the view from here," he informs her, his smile soft and almost sad. The words slip, the piece of information leaves and she doesn't get why he's saying this to her of all people. Unknown, traitor, elf, murderer, woman, she would understand if he searched for Alistair who is kin. Instead, he speaks to her, his gaze carefully settling everywhere but on her. "It never changed. Ever since I was a boy, Redcliffe is always the same. Kings come and go, armies march and leave. But these houses never change, the chantry remains. These people are always here."

Tomorrow, all of these might not be. Teagan doesn't speak these words, she doesn't speak them and neither will voice them. It is not needed.

 _There is a new sword lying by my side_ , her mind answers him immediately, _solid and sturdy, fit for a Hero. I hold the taint, you are stronger than some, and I am strong too. You are not despairing yet, you can lead them. Mages. We have mages who can fight and no Chant can say otherwise_.

Her mind can conjure all the reasons she used on herself in a heartbeat but none of them are what he needs or wants. This, the woman knows without knowing him, just as she knows that she has no way or will to ease his worries. Not of this man who she doesn't know, who doesn't know her, who seems honorable and wishes to save a whole village, the poor fool that he is.

"The sun will still keep us company tomorrow, my lord."

There is a pause after her words. It extends through the space between them, through the square, through the lake itself and barges into her own mind which remains painfully _blank_. There, every one of those things seems to hope her ignorance isn't splashed all over her face because Tasha doesn't even understand what she said, never mind why she said it.

Luckily, - fortunately, _finally_ \- the Militia starts leaving the Chantry, bodies pushing and pulling against her own as they exit the building. Tasha can hear Leliana yelling for her above the crowd, sees Alistair wondering just why she is staring at his uncle as if waiting for a reply when she is supposed be joining them. Even odder than his gaze is the elf still waiting for something while _wishing to leave_.

Teagan pushes himself from the floor, dusts himself off carefully before reaching for the shield he had placed to the side earlier. In one smooth movement, it is shouldered, keeping company to the silver sword peeking over his head. In between, his hand found her shoulder and tightened. "So that is a promise. Be sure to remember it." Head tilts, another smile, fears hidden away because everyone around them is looking, wishing for strength and heroes they can follow. Because they are leaders and leaders have no fear, they are and give strength. "Until tomorrow, my lady."

By his countenance, Tasha has the oddest impression she promised more than being alive to see another sunset. But, for the life of her, she has no idea just what. Nor that she had promised anything to begin with. Her eyes want to roll; she wants to ask someone just what took place but the only thing she has time to do is to groan mentally about human inanity – and _elven_ while she's on that particular subject.

Tasha knows that she didn't promise anything to anyone.

During the whole night, however, she acts as if she did.

 


	3. tight

003\. _tight_

**xxxXXXxxx**

He is not staring. He is _not_ staring. He just isn't. It is obviously not something someone like him should do. It is immoral and wrong and oh Maker, he cannot be doing this. He definitely isn't thanking whoever had the odd idea to think a skirt and a small shirt can be considered actual armor. No, of course not. He would never _think_ of thinking any of these things. He is merely too tired and the odd thoughts rampaging through his mind are nothing more than the result of a long night fighting, of too many nightmares beating against his door. This is why he's suddenly acting like a – _heavily drunk_ – boy half his age.

The man pulls back, turns from the larger group, now noisily congratulating themselves for something, before leaning against the rocky cliff. It is a decent support and helps keeping his frail sanity in place.

Because he obviously isn't staring.

Rather peculiar though. A flimsy skirt, slips of leather held together just don't seem to provide proper defense no matter how many times he wonders about it. They do, however, make one's anatomy seem very…different. Different is a good word. He might use long as well, it fits. Perhaps toned. Muscled? No. No, he definitely thinks long applies. A toned thigh, never-ending skin finished by a frail foot.

He chooses to keep his mind from despairing completely by forcibly covering his eyes with a gloved hand. Maybe this way he can keep himself from degenerating. Keep some dignity to his name and reputation before he makes a complete fool out of himself. It is not the first time Teagan has seen a female fighter. In fact, his own guard has several of them and many are counted among the best. In any city from Denerim to Lothering, women fight side by side with men in a battlefield. That is not the issue.

Dalish armor is. If it gets any smaller, he might disgrace himself completely.

One breath. Another. Five minutes pass and he keeps himself silently by a side, still alone and recovering. It is only when the more decent part of his mind – _anatomy_ \- takes over that Teagan feels someone come closer, booted feet clicking softly in the dirt that surrounds them. A hand reaches out to touch his, pushing it away from his eyes, forcing him to face reality and the newly arrived.

The Warden.

She is staring at him uncomfortably, her blue eyes looking over his features, rolling over his body in search for something he cannot phantom. All the while, her hands rummage through her backpack and the only thought he can hold onto is how her tattoos seem especially red this morning.

Oh. It _is_ morning.

"My lady?" Her name. He cannot remember her name. How peculiar. "Is something the matter?"

Teagan receives one especially dry look for that comment, one that clearly states he is an idiot without need for words. He has seen her giving that particular look to several since arrival. The smith, Dwyn, one of the thugs who follow the dwarf around like a puppy, Ser Perth who was still hammering her about the Maker's protection and a woman who tried sending her to a kitchen of all places. So far, almost everyone she met in the village.

She doesn't reply, which is probably good since his pattern of thought left his question far before. Instead, she is kneeling on the floor while gripping bandages and reaching for poultices, yelling over someone's complaints for wine. He stares. Stares as if the Warden's out of her mind, simply watches her dexterous hands gripping the arrow which is stuck in his thigh and…

_Oh._

"Humans." The elf mutters under her breath, carelessly as if she doesn't care he might listen. "Bleeding to death and not bothering to do as much as calling someone. If this is how humans lead others, no wonder...and no one even _notices_." Her pretty head shakes from side to side as words stumble out, bloodied hair sticking in her skin in a way that seems highly uncomfortable.

And _he_ is also bleeding, the man notices at last. Maker bless him, blood loss _does_ explain his unusual amount of idiocy. Which means he has yet to go completely mad. That is a good thing, Teagan concludes victoriously.

People move around him now, noticing their injured Bann for the first time, asking for help or offering it without being needed. The mage is already there, hands on his skin while the Warden moves a dagger around, heating and cutting, taking pieces of wood out of his skin before any poison can settle. Teagan sees all this with abandon, even though his mind is slowly returning to its normal state.

It does allow itself to form one last nonsensical thought, coated with fever and lack of coherency.

The Warden should consider replacing her scale mail with Dalish armor.

 _Just saying_.


	4. dense.

004\. _dense_

**xxxXXXxxx**

There are a couple of things one can know about Alienage elves without bothering to set foot anywhere near a city where they dwell. One, they have pointy ears. Two, they are poor. Sten had come from another continent and even he had those two down to a T. The third can vary from individual to individual but, on a whole, they dislike humans. The majority hates them. The total thinks they, quite foolishly, throw away every gift they are given. Summing it all, elves live far happier when away from their flat-eared cohabitants.

Tasha is hardly an exception. Until her integration in the Grey Wardens, she lived solely in the streets of the Alienage, the walls of Denerim keeping her home safe and confined. Having humans staring at her ears, at her hands in case she steals them blind, at her body as if she's going to sell it at any given moment, all of those are not a novelty. Her failed wedding was just the cherry on top of her hatred. She abhors most humans, dislikes the rest by default and has the tendency to remember forgetting to hide that particular prejudice. Respect comes painfully earned. Alistair and Leliana learned it - hated but learned it - and Morrigan, of all people, understood her easily enough. The mage hates the majority of Ferelden's inhabitants by simple rule, no distinction of race and location. Wynne was the one human which conquered her respect the quickest, barely two minutes after their meeting by placing her life on the line to protect children.

It is no wonder that her eyes are already narrowing faintly when a human female shows up in the aftermath of the battle – exactly when the massacre is finally over and the dead placed to the side. Orlesian accent, deep and sweet, used at the top of its owner's lungs and calling everyone's attention.

Tasha doesn't notice when her hand reaches for the sword on her back. The noble dress and the armed guard are everything she can keep track of in her exhaustion – and there are Wynne's own fingers, slipping over hers and pulling them away as if she knows exactly what the elf is ready to do to protect herself. _Wait_ , Tasha thinks, taking a long deep breath. _Think_.

Orlesian then, a beautiful dress sewed in colorful fabrics, carefully arranged hair and a pretty face filled with distress, wet with tears which keep sliding. Every detail serves to feed her annoyance little by little, enlarging it from her natural human dislike to one which scrapes loathing. Because in front of this gentlewoman, dressed in her disgusting chain mail, hair pilled in a bloody mess and requiring a long bath to get rid of the darkspawn blood buried against her skin, Tasha fells like a barbarian from the old days. Call her petty but she just can't endear herself to that womanly beauty while feeling an ogre.

Unfortunately, her issues with the woman keep growing with each voiced comment. The battle is over, they have just lived through one of the worse nights in their memories – Ostagar excluded – and this human – _this is the Arlessa?_ – ignores them and her domain as if they are nothing, passes by them as if they are mere road decorations. And then there's Alistair. This is the woman who pushed a husband to send a child to the Chantry, who robbed him of everything he knew and loved. Isolde has barely started talking and Tasha's expression has already decided that saying its owner doesn't like the arrival is a severe understatement.

But the elf waits, feeling Wynne's hand move once more and take hold of her elbow, the light pressure between the scales of her armor whispering caution. The mage does that often. Tasha ignores it often. And ignore it again she does, her frown more and more pronounced as she hears Isolde's words and her final request.

She wants the last leader of the sieged village to leave in a fool’s errand.

"Careful, this can be an ambush." It _is_ an ambush, you foolish male, her annoyance wishes to say, chew out both him and Alistair who seem to believe the woman is being sensible when her selfishness is currently attempting to drown the entire party. For the first time, the elf is glad that Morrigan is that suspicious. She can almost sense the other woman move to cross her arms, reading between the underlines all that Isolde does not say. Two women staring, that's bound to break the other from her tearful monologue.

It doesn't work as expected. When Isolde turns to her and the acknowledgement should be a victory, Tasha discovers she has to look up slightly in order to meet her eyes. As soon as one thinks nothing can make the situation worse, irony listens and makes sure she now feels like an uncommonly short dirty ogre.

"What?" Isolde frowns delicately, her little nose raised and wrinkling as if there's a disgusting smell near – which probably true, blood and guts don't fade into nothing – before turning, yet again, to her husband's brother. "I... who is this woman, Teagan?"

Tasha has the inane wish to punch her.

Sadly, Alistair – dense and ever so careless Alistair – chooses to interfere, taking over Wynne and gripping her shoulder, _pulling_ before dragging all the women's unpleasantness towards himself, the child that she harmed. Teagan – just as dense and _male_ – follows his cue, defends him, defends her, gives them the debt of his life. But in the end of the discussion, Isolde is still treating her as if she's little more than an irritation and everything she doesn't say surpasses the little she does say.

If it was up to her, Wynne and Morrigan would be the ones to speak up. The ones who could explain this woman's words and just how many of those are lies of omission woven in disgustingly feminine tears. If it was up to her, they would be settling a small party before jumping directly into a wolf's jaws. But it isn't, unfortunately. It is the Bann's. And the noble is being _noble_ and focusing on the manner to keep his family out of danger, according to his badly worded arguments.

Batting eyelashes and tears have nothing to do with it, of course.

"Enough questions. We need to decide what to do." Her patience waves goodbye and she knows she's about to say everything she shouldn't. There is a limit to what someone of her stature can achieve, a limit to the words uttered which will not lead to an empty cell. But this idiot is being ever so dense and Maker help her, she's not about to see such terrible stupidity waste a life she helped to save. It is enough to make the respect he earned from her go out the proverbial window.

"This is all a mistake," she continues, her words saying much less than she wishes. "You have no idea what is going on in the Castle. You know where these things came from. What makes you believe you won’t find a whole building of them waiting? Only thing you'll manage is to get yourself killed."

He smiles. What's with this man and smiling whenever he is about to dive into a dangerous situation? Blight ended, the woman decides, she is joining the Dalish. To live near these incomprehensible creatures and their unexplainable actions would drive her mad in less than a week. Her lips open, ready to continue her tirade including some of her more sensible arguments – _you cannot die, fool_ – when she's stopped by the smallest gesture for silence. The shadow behind his eyes that Tasha can recognize. It houses a fading light, a setting sun and the slight companionship before they were thrown into chaos.

He knows. The stupid man _knows_.

"Isolde, can you excuse us for a moment? We must confer in private before I return to the castle with you." Tasha doesn't listen to the Arlessa's reply, lost in the surprise of her discovery. She reads something other than what his words say, hears the caution behind his request and a plan which cannot work but has no pretentions to. It is called bait, to draw attention away or simply attempt because remaining still is not possible.

"I cannot let Isolde return alone." His smile turns faintly into a grimace, false and forced, something akin to a sigh drowned in between the worry. "Perhaps I can help Connor or Eamon," the man persists. "Perhaps this is really a trap, but this is my family."

Her steps had echoed in the Arl's palace, running into every room, killing every guard who tried to bar her path. Because Shianni needed her. And Shianni carried her blood. She would spill half the nation's to spare hers.

"I must try." She understands. Damn him, she understands what he's doing. Stupid, decent, slow, stupidly noble and all that Tasha had done and would do again and again if needed.

This is not for Ferelden, for honor, for some dignified value or a title which matters nothing at the end of the day. It's for his brother and his young nephew, it's for his family. There's no greater reason to walk forward. And her respect rears its small head somewhere in the background, swallowing her recriminations before they are born.

From then on, the elf nods to every suggestion, needing not warning hands or careful words. To stop him would be hypocritical even if Isolde still annoys her and the tears the woman keeps shedding are steadily chipping away her dying self-control. It is her respect, and solely to that man, which keeps Tasha silent, head slowly nodding while agreeing to a desperate mission.

The two nobles are leaving now and no one approaches her, as if her irritation is a poison which leaves her body and stains the air. Only her Mabari does, the soft whines for attention sounding like pleads, the constant bumping against her knees attempting to pull her out of her self-commiseration. He is worried. Tasha can feel it as clearly as if he is speaking in words but is too worried to calm him. He cannot understand, this lovely brown dog who worries over her private complications, he cannot _help._.. Her eyes meet his, blue against brown. _Maybe he is worried too_. Maybe the dog does understand better than she thinks and is trying to tell her so. "It's underhanded," she whispers, kneeling to hug his dirty form to hers, bloody fur against muddy scales. "It goes against the major plan and we agreed with him." But, Tasha adds absently, silently, she _didn't_ and she is _female_ and an elf to boot.

No one but the elf notices the hound leaving her side, walking silently behind the party before disappearing as per his mistress's orders. The rest is too busy worrying over the odd cheerful disposition with which their leader begins slaying undead.

 


	5. bone.

005\. _bone_

**xxxXXXxxx**

Blinking. This human blinks a lot. And grumbles, keeps fighting and struggling like a newborn pup.

"You sent your hound after us?"

His elf nods.

"After I told you to come through another exit. Knowing that I was supposed to come alone?"

A shrug. She does that when the reply is too obvious. It saves time, it saves words. Assan learned quickly his elf doesn't like to waste explanations. It makes her cranky and he gets no caresses when she is cranky.

"Your sister in law said you were to come along. Not that you could not be followed and hardly that you could not be followed by a Mabari. Isn't that right, my sweet?"

Her blue eyes turn to him and they're in a good mood. Ah, he did well! Assan barks in approval from his current position, appearing to all the world as if he's enjoying himself as much as her, laughing accordingly.

"You placed us all in danger!"

Oh. The human is angry and yelling far too loudly for his sensitive ears. This is a bad sign. People yelling means that his elf has to compromise, look bothered. She is important after all. Cannot afford to bother the wrong people. The Mabari turns his head a little to the side searching for that reaction but sees nothing like regret. In fact, her smile is as sweet as it is fake as she shrugs once more. So she's fine, everything's fine. His ears still ring though thus the dog moves just _so_ and the yelling is cut off. _Much better_.

"I did no such thing," she says simply, drawing his notice with the constant tapping of her metal claw against the floor. There's a small puddle of blood slipping from it and that's more attention worthy. If Assan could frown, he would. Bad claws, bad cuts, dead elves, dead owner. Her fur needs a good scrub too. Something has to protect her when he's busy. "You came here to save the kid. I found a way to help you live through it."

Live, yes. Spare from embarrassment, no.

"How is this _aiding_?"

She bats her eyelashes, smiles even more sweetly and overall, makes a passable impersonation of the odd smelling woman which led them there.

"I told Assan to defend the dim-witted one. Not to stop him from demeaning himself." No one interrupts her bar silence. It is alright. The dog can read more of his owner than any of them. _Any of them_. In that moment, there's enough laughter in her eyes to fill the whole castle and the village. He likes it. Likes it as much as he likes her. "Assan, my sweet." He also likes her real smiles, rare as they are, bright and just for him.

"You're all done," she carries on. "Let's go get you a bone, shall we? Before the slow human cannot breathe anymore. And no, that doesn't mean you are fat. You need energy and rest, my strong warrior." Bone is the magical word for the Mabari but it's not needed. His mistress is happy, smiling in that manner that just means she's very very amused and calling for his presence alone. She's pleased, he's pleased and he did well. If he did well, he deserves her attention, – _him and him alone_ \- a big fat bone and maybe he will get to cuddle against her warm form at camp. Yes, the Mabari looks quite proud of himself as he slides away from the man's chest, allowing him to move for the first time in the past hour.

The demon found it amusing. His owner praised him for it. He's getting bones as reward and her fingers are already scratching the right spot on his ears. Right. _There_. Bliss.

Assan wonders briefly if his elf will want him to defend the stupid one more often.


	6. thud.

006\. _thud_

**xxxXXXxxx**

Redcliffe castle was comfortable. Thick and solid stone walls, build centuries before by the Avvar, a stronghold which kept Ferelden protected from enemies which existed and often which did not care enough to be seen as enemies. It is cold, build mostly for protection and hardly for comfort, all of it finer granite and impressive wooden doors, fluffy dark carpets and paintings of nobles whose names are long forgotten.

Teagan likes the old castle. It houses his childhood within its walls, the memories of a time when Eamon was only a brother instead an Arl, when he still had a family, when the castle itself was far richer in people than it is now. It's not even the fact that the demon – Connor – has killed half the staff in its confusing games. The noble can remember a time when a child could run all around the main floor with not so much as a yell against it. It held more life, more happiness, a mothering presence and a scolding father.

That is why he left. Of course, he could have remained in the village. Any threat he could have meant to Eamon's rule had been thoroughly destroyed by his father's teachings when a child. Blood is blood. Thicker than water, goes the saying, stronger than anything else, any bond or promise. Teagan would rather allow himself to be killed if there was the smallest chance of being forced to raise arms against his older brother. Redcliffe is Eamon's and his alone and that's fine.

But _Isolde_. Isolde was also Eamon's. It couldn't be his, shouldn't be his and would never be. That is exactly why he left. Because his brother deserves a proper family, to be a scolding father with a mischievous child underneath his wing while watching a mother – a proper mother presence – protect the one proof he existed. The one who will repeat his name and remember his gestures as Teagan remembers his own father's. Recliffe Castle deserves to be alive as it once was which leaves no place in this family for him bar that of a visitor. He is aware of it, gossip repeats it and Rainesfere is safe.

She never did like it. Too muddy for a former Orlesian.

Family is also the reason why he returned. Duty claims one Guerrin should defend the village, as so many of his line had done in the past. When one wages war, another follows. When one cannot, the other takes its place. When has his life not been ruled by duty? Duty to his family, duty to his country and king. Duty is the highest value he struggles for and family his most precious possession. Two hours after knowing his brother is sick, the Bann is already on his horse, forgoing safety, forgetting guards or soldiers which might accompany him. He doesn't seem to know better only he does. Family and duty, they rule all his actions.

None of those explain why he's standing in that hallway, staring at an impassive door as if it will be suddenly spun open to receive him. It is half closed, the lock clearly open while light drifts from the interior. There are also voices and a soft thud, constant and rhythmic, five by five sounds before stopping and restarting once more.

Without realizing it, Teagan begins counting the mild sound in his head. _One, two, three_ – Why is he here though? There is nothing that can be done during the night. – _Five. Stop. One, two,_ – The small group will leave in the morning for the circle, two of them will stay behind. Mages will help them. _– Four, five_ – Only he doesn't trust mages that much, they began all of this. – _Two, three, four_.

"Now that is a large amount of pacing." Alistair's voice interrupts him abruptly and the man turns sharply in his place. It takes a while until he notices the words weren't for him even though he did start to pace. It comes from the room which he had been watching.

Teagan also notices the beats have stopped, interrupted just as he was.

"I cannot stop." Both Wardens then. It is no real surprise. The guest room had been assigned earlier and it is not that late in the night. If they had decided what to do to save Connor during the morning, the whole party would be halfway to the Tower by then. He remembers vaguely that both him and Isolde had attempted to make them leave immediately. Family and duty, he whispers to himself. Otherwise he would have remembered the group has spent the last few days fighting for them, running like madmen while dealing with nightmares he cannot begin to understand. They had no right to ask more from them except that they _did_ and still do.

"I am worried," the female voice continues. "If I stop, I begin thinking too much."

"As opposed to pacing while thinking too much. Totally makes sense." Another thud, stronger this time. By the groan of pain, Teagan deduces the elf threw something rather solid at his nephew and shakes his head, allowing the faint hilarity to reach him. These days, he takes it where it is found, fleeting as it is.

The pacing restarts.

"When I move, I think about other things. Count the steps, count the tiles, count the books, watch the paintings. I don't wonder." _One, two, three, four and five_. _Stop and restart._ "We should have left at once." _Abrupt stop._ "We cannot rest while there is a demon on the top floor. We cannot even relax without a weapon at arm's reach. Why not leave immediately? We could be approaching the…"

"Aaaand stop right there. You feel like being shot in the dark? Fancy passing out in front of the Gates? The Templars would love it. Grey Warden cannot finish a track without fainting. First lines on gossip tomorrow, Tasha."

Shame. Teagan doesn't remember the last time he felt it – _except he does_. Alistair is a relative, adopted or not, and he loves Connor in his own way. Even Isolde – _that shame weights, pulls against his stomach, joins the more recent one_ – knows enough of her adoptive nephew to be aware the man would do anything to save him. And while Alistair wants to the best for his family, he still worries, he still thinks forward and of others. Says the words Teagan should have said earlier. And worse of it all, _he_ knows her name.

Shame can be physical, the noble learns when Tasha laughs, tired and barely audible through the thick door. It sounds more like something to put another at ease than a real bout of laughter.

"And now that you have finally stopped giving me a migraine," Alistair picks up, obviously much more at relaxed than his companion. "Maybe you should, I don't know, sit down? Just a suggestion, don't feel pressured to rest or anything."

A pause before the pacing resumes but this time, he can hear her laughter better. It is less forced, far more pleasing.

"You can't talk. That flower will be destroyed if you keep thumbing it like that." _One, two, three_. "Put it in water or just away. It's too pretty to be ruined."

_Four, five, stop and restart. One._

"Do you know what it is?" _Two, three, four._

 _Five, stop and restart._ "Your new weapon of choice?"

It has been too long since Teagan has seen Alistair. The last time, he had been nine years old with scratches in his arms, mud on his hair and an infectious laughter which made half the servants sigh for the man he could become in the future. His uncle didn't get to see him grow up, couldn't manage to stop Isolde from sending him away, giving him to the Chantry where anyone could see he wouldn't be happy. He is familiar with the boy but knows little of the man he became. A man stumbling like a child and rushing awkward words in a situation Teagan is not supposed to hear. To know about. He doesn't want to know about this.

There is this ringing in his ears and he can only hear that there is no more pacing. He is not supposed to hear anything else.

And so Teagan walks away, forcing his own body to ignore the last words, the last whispers of a male voice – _one, two, three, his steps echoing down the hallway and down up the stairs, into his old room and the thump of his door against its hinges_ – because, for whatever reason, he is remembering another woman and another man of his family, more intricate words and flowing poems taken from the castle's library.

If he is not there, he will not wish it. Desire it. Miss it.

 _Except he does_.

 


	7. fever.

007. _fever_

**xxxXXXxxx**

Leliana doesn't stop staring at Wynne. Wynne keeps gazing at Jowan. Assan has a ruffle eye fixed on Alistair. Alistair's eyes scarcely stray from Tasha. And Tasha, that one doesn't look away from Morrigan's body, lying ever so still and lifeless as its owner never is. It is like a puppet show where the puppet is broken beyond repair and the puppeteer fails to notice.

The elf stirs barely in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. It has been hours since they have started this ritual – minutes after barging through the front gates – and she's not keen on displaying her ignorance by asking how long it will last. But she is still worried.

Maker help her, it seems like this is sucha permanent part of her life nowadays. There is the danger, the rush and adrenaline, the worry and the constant fear. They already have their own place in her bedroll at night and keep her company in the dreams which aren't overcome by the giant dragon.

The conscious part of her, the rational, knows the mage just left for the Fade, listens to the careful mumbling of the blood mage by her side and accepts this is just another way to fight. Her more emotional one – and she can hear Morrigan scoff in disgust when she admits it – is, once again, afraid. She is used to fight her battles and that of others. And, in between the Kocari Wilds and Lothering, half way to the Tower of Magi and a little after fighting Zathrian in the lost ruins, Tasha has accepted the mage's odd way to be. It stings and prickles, all covered by a surface frozen to the touch. That is fine. It is constant and she cannot fear it anymore.

Her body shifts again, uncomfortable and weary, annoyingly warm beside the cold floor and the mage's colder skin. Like a little girl waiting for her mother to wake, like the little girl who waited by her mother's side as she didn't wake and the human's leaving, their clothes a very ugly shade of red. Tasha hates this waiting most of all, hates the color, hates the silence, hates the fact that she's not a mage and had to send her companion into a place she cannot follow.

Memories. The woman blinks as if snapped from her daydream. These cannot do. Lately, everything seems to make her remember. Good things, bad things, not so bad, not so good. Even talking to Sten at camp tugged her down memory lane and both ended with this strange homesickness overtaking him. Bonding over bad emotions and plunging into Darkspawn slaying. Her relationship with Sten is jumping leaps and bounds lately.

Talking about that. Another shift and a fleeting wish for a good bed precede her analysis of the room, immediately followed by a small eyebrow rising in reaction. She needs to stop traveling down her memories. Left unattended, her party goes quite mad – or incredibly infatuated with each other, she cannot decide. Her face flushes immediately like a maiden, two bright red spots in between pale flesh. No, no more memories, recent or otherwise. Tasha knows she needs to stop this – all of this – and wondering about herself is just selfish.

Morrigan is more important, for example. The elf grasps a gloved hand in hers and her face immediately hardens. Duties and more duties, she has no right to be selfish. "Warden." But that's not the sole reason which keeps from remembering what took place merely a day before. There is too much open, too much unknown and she doesn't know how to reply. Her wedding was much easier, she thinks wryly. 'Here, this is your fiancée, you are marrying in twenty minutes. Get acquainted.' Simple, easy and no emotions involved. Not that she has emotions involved _now_.

"Warden."

Maker, her brain just ties her thoughts in knots before jumbling every thought together. Hopefully, Jowan cannot reach into her mind because the migraine she has earned might just attach itself to him and she needs him perfectly well to bring her companion – friend – back.

"Tasha, what is the matter?"

It takes a whole total of ten seconds for Tasha to notice that everyone has stopped staring at both Connor and Morrigan, at each other like they are all housing demons and their gazes have locked onto her form. She can almost feel the disapproval waving through the atmosphere but instead of bothering, it makes her oddly giddy. One would think she's doing something weird or out of the ordinary. Looking after a friend is hardly in that category.

Wynne is by her side in an instant, forgetting she is supposed to be glaring at the former apprentice, forgetting even that there is the closest thing to blood magic being done in the room. Luckily, they saved the Circle before they came here. Sometimes, Tasha doesn't know what she would do without this woman who keeps looking after her, who touches her forehead as she remembers her mother doing, who scolds her about responsibility as the elven woman.

She frowns lightly. That's not right. She was five when Adaia was killed. The only responsibility she held by then was to make sure her dress lasted through the month with more fabric than holes.

"So much for the fabled resistance of the Grey Wardens, hm?" The elder woman's face is in front of hers and she's smiling rather smugly for such an old woman. She expects it from Flemeth who is, basically, an evil abomination bent on taking over the few children she begets but never from a supposedly kind old teacher. "You, my dear friend, are sick. And running a fever, I see."

_Ridiculous._

"She shouldn't be here then. I'll take her upstairs." Tasha frowns once more and it seems now like it's a permanent adornment of her expression. While she is touched, in a small way, by their concern she certainly is not sick and not feverish. Even if she was – _which she isn't_ – to think of herself in this moment is ridiculous and _selfish_. "Come on. Up you go."

_No._

The woman shifts yet again, this time to escape Alistair's hands which are trying to take her from the fallen mage. She can speak. She can. She just doesn't want to explain why she doesn't want to leave. Not when there's Isolde standing over Connor and the Bann is staring at her – Maker, too much staring is taking place in this hall.

"Tasha. Do not be foolish. We might have to leave soon." And Maker forbid she forgets her responsibilities over a fever and a friend.

 _Ridiculous_.

Now she knows she is being. Her face burns and it's not because of embarrassment, memories or shame. Her body is cold inside the armor but sweaty against the leather padding. And she knows she'll be fine tomorrow if she, at least, rose from the cold floor and went somewhere else. But what if? What if Morrigan wakes and needs help? What if she doesn't kill the demon? What if the demon awakes first? What if, what if, what if, they run through her mind and tie the previous knots in their jumbled mess even more tightly until she cannot make head or tails of anything. _What if her mother doesn't wake?_

There's a leather-covered hand in hers. That she can see.

"Let her be."

"But…"

"Let her be." It is not a request anymore, the tone is hardly submissive and all complaints are quieted, covered by the strength of someone else.

Tasha is a little girl again and the rain is falling. Stubborn, she should be resting, taking her mother home or warning her father. But this is better, cold against her legs, warmth on her skin and flesh and the hand in hers. Moments pass, minutes, hours, her body hurts and shifts, her throat itches in warning, no one moves.

Except for Morrigan who takes her time to begin stirring, opens her golden eyes as if she has finished a particularly pleasant nap before setting them on her face. _Staring_.

"You look ridiculous, Tasha."

_Mother's eyes are supposed to be blue too. So mother is just as ridiculous._

But she doesn't feel so when she begins laughing, her gratitude slipping through her pained throat, the crying of a boy barely heard above the sound - though she's quite sure it sounds female and _hers_. She is young, after all, but her mother just woke up so there is no reason to cry. The human man isn't that bad at all. He didn't take her away, didn't take her mother away.

Teagan will remember that day as the first the Warden actually smiled at him though she will never mention it or explain her actions.

Except to say he should never wear red.


	8. kid.

008\. _kid_

**xxxXXXxxx**

This night is different. It might be the smell of flowers in the air, might be the spring arriving, might even be the fact that, for the first time in a week, no one in Redcliffe stares at the setting Sun in horror for what it will bring. Instead, they wander around, almost dancing if one notices the exuberance of movements, hands busy while preparing Maker knows exactly what. If the boy didn't know better, he'd say everyone's preparing for a party. A great fire is already lit, small wearied carpets thrown in a circle for people to sit down. Though now they are mainly being used by the children who seem to enjoy rolling around too much while their mothers work, Connor can imagine this whole – small – crowd sitting by the fire later at night.

And he scowls.

The scowl stays and grows as the preparations continue. Chickens begin being roasted, a large stew being prepared. By the side, even Ser Perth has been drafted away by giggling maidens to help carrying vegetables. He doesn't seem to wince with their high-pitched laughter so the young mage makes sure to do it for him. It is politeness keeping that kind of smile on his face, thepoor knight, and the noble boy has no such problems from his position. Away and far from the fire, his features so contorted that they start to hurt after a while. But he doesn't _get this_ and no seems inclined to explain anything. They are preparing a party!

"You know. I could joke and say your face will freeze like that. Problem is that you're a mage so who's to say it cannot happen?"

His frown drops away so quickly as if someone has pushed him directly into the lake. Not one knows he's a mage. No one's supposed to know he's a mage yet. Mother talked with everyone, Uncle kept them from whispering and carrying too much information from the Castle. He looks around, almost frantically and the idea of being just someone from the Castle doesn't settle quite yet. He doesn't remember this elf from the castle anyway.

Brown hair, freshly washed and still dripping, tied on the back of her hair to keep it from slipping too much. Tattoos. They weave in and out on her skin, strange patterns which might have a meaning but he's too ignorant – _young, too young_ – to understand. Nothing else is worthy of notice for his expert eyes. Her face is not that different, long and too pale, her ears are pointy but so is every servant's. In a way, she doesn't look like a servant either and not just because she just scolded him _. She scolded him!_ Maybe because she doesn't carry herself like one? That doesn't make much sense after he thinks it. It is the clothes, he adds as an afterthought. She dresses in a simple dress but one slightly better than the servants. Perhaps she is paid more, sort of like an Orlesian elf.

A brown eyebrow is raised, a small twist of her lips which can be either a smile or scorn. _Or joking. She could be mocking him right then!_ "I trust my apparel is to your grace's taste." _She is!_ Not that the apparel isn't, he supposes. It is just a dress and it sort of suits her, simple and pretty. But the way she says his title – _his father's_ – feels like someone is telling a joke and calling the village's drunk of king. It makes his skin – _pride_ – itch a little.

"That bad, is it?" She continues, walking closer to him, closer enough for him to notice she is not that tall either, thin and lithe, muscles rippling gently with her movements. The kitchen elves tend to be stronger, always having to carry things all around the Castle; she has to be one of them. "Shem won't care though. They can stack their daughters against me tonight and they will all win. Maybe I should have come with my armor instead and make them pit against me in strength? Wouldn't that be a sight for this party? If nothing else, I might hurt some egos."

The way she says that, so simply as if stating an obvious fact, as if a small woman can beat anything, is one more sign she is mocking him outright now. And since when kitchen elves get to use _armor_? The shock of his person being mocked is surpassed for a moment because she has just confirmed his suspicions. This _is_ a party. A party made during the night when everyone should know the night is dangerous, a party done while there are people who died just yesterday, a party done when his father is still bedridden with a strange disease no one can treat.

"How can they do this?"

Connor doesn't realize he made the question out loud until the elf moves. He can hear her clothing shift and rustle when she kneels by his side, seemingly with her head on the clouds. But she's not smiling anymore, not even a little and he can see her face is set in an expression which is too serious for any party as she bites down on a blunt nail. All the light-hearted good mood the elf had carried seems to have disappeared into thin air, dying with the last wisps of natural light.

"Why did you tell your mother you don't remember?" The party is pushed out of his mind like their previous discussion had been. In a moment, because of simple words this elf – _an elf of all things_ – utters. "I guess we both have our own share of fair questions. _Ah._ But if I want an answer, I should give one, shouldn't I?"

Instead of actually replying, the woman stops her impersonation of an airhead long enough to reach out to his arm, grab a bit of flesh between deft fingers and pinch him. _Hard!_

"Hurts, doesn't it?" The elf continues dryly as he gasps, running a hand over his abused flesh and not even remembering he can yell at her. _Because he can yell at her! He can!_ "You can see pain as anguish solely, complain, yell and drag your feet if it makes you happy. It is your choice. That does not matter it cannot be seen as they are doing." She points in front of them where the children are still playing, now being shushed because the food is fuming in brown cups and dinner is beginning. Someone sings. "Pain means you are alive, that you can keep walking. Suffering means you had something you hold dear, even if it's just yourself or something material, and lost it. Both are a part of life. Both mean you still breathe and exist. You can choose to just dwell on how hard that is, like you are doing, or you can celebrate the mere fact that you can feel both, like they do."

"Sometimes, you just need to pretend." Her hands grasp his, pushing them away – _his arm doesn't hurt anymore so it's alright if he doesn't stop her_ \- and then whisper in front of his eyes as if to will his frown away. The words the elf speaks sound like a spell. "Tonight is out of time. There is no death, no sorrow. The morning will come when it comes. Bad things are somewhere away and they don't matter. We are out of time. No one is waiting, no one needs us. And we?" There. There's that small twitch of her lips again. Connor wonders if she's mocking him again though something just seems off with that idea. "We need food, drink and to be merry."

She pushes herself to her full height – which is really not saying that much – and places both hands on his shoulders, turning him towards the fires. "This night is out of time," says her voice, very light into his ears. "Let them have it before the morning brings everything back. You, of all people, understand what is waiting for us."

He remembers. The demon whispering on his ears, the mage who taught him, his father falling ill, _surrendering_. He remembers everything that was done and all of those who were killed. And it's his guilt also making an appearance because he was supposed to be strong enough to save his father, not weak enough to fail in this manner. He killed these people's parents. He killed sons and daughters and he _remembers_ doing it. Saying so, however, is to agree he is guilty and that scares him more than anything. Mages are hated, he will be hated even more. Connor's not sure he can bear having his mother's – _his father's_ – hatred.

The elf leaves him alone with his thoughts eventually, disappearing between the crowd and he doesn't see her for a while. Someone around him whispers about a hero and tales are told, they sing of a name which sounds off and alien and then eat and are merry. Just like the elf said. When Connor notices her form again, it is already twirling and laughing in the arms of some farmer, of a soldier, of a noble, dancing around the fire which is the only light for miles and miles around them.

This night doesn't belong in time. Here, none fears the dark or death. No one remembers the fallen. This night is for celebration. So, he thinks, squaring his shoulders and straightening as he has seen his father do countless times, there is no real reason for him to be afraid _tonight_. Everyone else isn't. _And he can be stronger, he really can._

Connor runs closer to the swirling couples, pushes in between them to reach the door of the Chantry – open and inviting – and sees his mother sitting in front. She looks lovely, feels even more when he hugs her, forgetting that half of Redcliffe army can see their Lord's son grasping his mother like a new born babe. But it doesn't matter, the boy repeats to himself. This night is out of time so no one will care, no one will pay it any importance; he can be a kid again.

"I remember," he whispers in her ear swiftly – _bravely_.

And before _her_ fear can take over and stop him, he's already running away into the crowd, joining them, eating and drinking and being merry just for one night. Tomorrow won't come just yet, there is no hatred nor fear and the fire is warm on his skin just as the elven woman's dress when she pulls at his arms, forcing him to dance with her, with everyone in that circle. Connor can swear he reads something like pride in her eyes.

That's sort of funny, having an unknown woman display this feeling. But it's alright, Connor concludes. He's quite proud of himself too.

 


	9. human.

009\. _human_

**xxxXXXxxx**

The night still dances around the fire, thick and beautiful. There are stars, no clouds, Recliffe is exactly what it represents to him. Life and hope, home defined in between a river and a dozen houses cramped together. This is precisely what he fought to preserve – and what he managed to, he adds with satisfaction. To live to cherish it once more is just result of the Maker blinking for a moment, luck or too many events to be listed. Teagan does not wish to remember those moments though. Comfortable, warm, satisfied, an arm resting lightly on the woman's waist as they stopped dancing just before she walks away from the fire. He likes to think there is no other option but to follow.

Eyes pursue their forms, wide and accusing. In but a moment, his arm falls away, reality crashes and the elf doesn't seem nearly as relaxed as before. Her face is slightly red, – or seems to be, he cannot be sure. It reminds him of the fever which had taken her and the scarce hours of sleep it demanded. The noble knows she slept but not exactly for how long. The fact is that, when they begin discussing his brother's healing she is already there, sitting between the Mage and the Qunari, listening – dare he say - with approval. When the party begins to be planned, he forgets she does not belong to Recliffe. When she stares at his adoptive nephew through the fire, wondering and unaffected, he remembers every word he overheard with clarity.

"He asked me if it was because of what he was."

And wonders if she knows he did so.

"Human," the woman elaborates, like her previous words and his knowledge of her are too flawed to understand her meaning without aid. "He asked me if it was my prejudice. If I hated his kind and that stopped me from caring for him."

The silence is heavy, thick with unsaid questions, weighted by all both fail to understand. There are still some singers but hardly any dancers. Some sleep, some have retired, some still linger drunkenly in every corner, all of those away from the circle which starts with her and ends with him.

"It isn't."

Alone, they aren't. The quiet still pushes between their forms, creates this barrier he cannot cross. If he could, Teagan would open his lips and reassure her he has no idea of what she means. As he cannot lie – should not, _does not want to_ – he gives up, surrenders to his own curiosity. She will be silent if he breaks this silence. And he is as interested to her explanation as her suitor had been. No. That cannot be right. Of course the other man would be far more interested. He has nothing to do with this woman.

_She only saved him, his nephew, his village, his honor. Will save his brother, he has no doubt._

But they begin to have this odd kind of relationship. Teagan recognizes, oddly enough, that he can tell her half statements and something in her will be able to find the missing piece. No need for further explanations, no need for added questionings and nothing can ever be considered too personal because they truly do not know each other. All they know are labels. Bann. _Warden_. Human. _Elf._ Each defines the other by them and attempt to know nothing else. That is why she speaks of this to him. Not to the mage, not to the _other_ mage, not to the bard.

"Then why was it?"

He is a good man, Teagan could say. Heir. _Bastard._ Noble. Powerful. _Childish_. Strong. Loving. _Confusing_. He doesn't just because. _He is being selfish_.

Tonight, she has smiled fully, around him, around everyone. The morning must be arriving though because her shoulders seem weighted, carrying yet another burden, another task forced upon her which leaves no option but to be accepted. Reality is breaching in. Her current smile is a good attempt to seem normal – makes her seem childish, younger and more approachable – but it just an attempt, a façade. Like looking through a fogged glass, it is not supposed to show the correct reflection.

 _A shrug_ , he predicts. She shrugs in reply – _sadly_ – and smiles – _just barely_ – before walking to the side of the road, head tilting to the side as she searches assisted by the growing light. It is a lovely gesture.

"Here." Stinging Nettle. It grows tall in the summer and dies out in the winter. Large leaves with soft fur, poison in each tip, serrated blades giving it edge. The small plant is held between her fingers, frail and innocent looking and, to him, she extends it. Without gloves, he would have still held it – that is the measure of the trust she has earned. Teagan looks at her, more unsaid questions and silence barring its way, piling over honorable ideas and racial distinctions, everything both stack in between them, everything that keeps her trying to smile when there is falsity all over the tentative.

Another smile. _Remorseful._

"Roses cannot be born in between walls," she explains, fringe falling over impassive eyes. "They do not like the shadow, they hate barred windows, they thrive where they are free and admired. Their defense is a façade, easily broken away. You can chip thorns and evade them. You need to protect them or they won’t even have the chance to bloom. Too much sun, lack of water, too much wind. They are fragile and shatter on their own." There is perception in her expression now, dry and unhappy. "I never saw this flower grow in the Alienage."

She is strong, all sharp edges and layers of leather and metal over skin. She is gentle curves covered in stone, flesh which never sees the daylight because she walks in shadows and lives during nightmares. She knows prejudice, walks with it and by its side every day so she has learned to shoulder it, to bend and try not to break since she has no right to and no one has the right to protect her. A Grey Warden needs no protection. Even now, dressed in linen and wool as she is, Teagan still sees the shadow of armor over her body and a large blade in her hand.

"It is not because he is human," Tasha finishes turning around, ignoring him, ignoring the last villagers, ignoring everything else but the answer she has just found in between her own questions. "It is because I am not a rose."

_Years after, it is Connor who finds a stinging nettle carefully kept inside a book, locked away in Rainesfere._

 


	10. pretty.

010.  _pretty_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Teagan does not like waiting. He does not like sitting around with little to do – even though organizing an army and keeping a whole village safe and working is hardly nothing in anyone's standards. Little work makes him think in all the wrong things which occupy his life nowadays and he does not like that either. Eamon still sleeps away, lost in a nightmare no one can touch and both waiting and thinking seem to be all Redcliffe is capable of doing. From noble to thief, merchant to priest, lives do not move forward, eyes spent every day watching the road as if the Grey Wardens will suddenly waltz in with a miracle cure on their hands. So far, sitting by the road and looking at the entrance of the village isn't bearing fruits.

Teagan has taken to wait by his brother's window instead, eyes fixed upon that very entrance. He likes the window. It had always been a lovely view, magical even, simply because it had once been forbidden. He can still feel the stone on his hands as he climbed onto the shield, the fresh air on his face as he perched himself above the cliff and stared down and away, all those lands which he didn't know and dreamed about. His father disliked it as much as the boy loved it. Now, grown and wiser, Teagan can recognize fear as well as any other. There is also no one to tell him what to do or to be careful anymore. It is a depressing thought.

Hours pass slowly, even when he is working. In that room is even worse. They drag on, making him feel each second, every moment and he prefers it when alone. Then, he can stare at his brother's face in silence, count each breath, reassure himself there is still time before anything else happens. The healer's words – spoken every six hours or so – do much less than this physical assurance.

"You should eat."

Another sign time has passed enters the room with little warning. Isolde is still beautiful, almost untouched by the years, small traces of white beginning to touch her brown hair and faint lines marring her face. The clothes are slightly larger for her body –  _she has lost weight_  – slightly more make-up on her cheeks to conceal dark smudges, most probably. His sister-in-law conceals so much, so well.

She conceals too much.

"Here. Do eat, brother," she smiles, sitting in front of him, white hands fluttering in activity and no distress is apparent in her features as she serves tea without need for a reply. It is easier to ignore he has given her none, both to her address or to the food he doesn't wish. Everything seems normal this way. _Eamon breathes, Connor is safe so there are no worries plaguing her. Everything can be normal._

"Teagan? Teagan, are you listening?" Chattering away, the woman does that at times, in one ear, out the other. "You should eat, I have not seen you eating since… well, I know not since when."

He shakes his head, accepting without a smile, consenting without a word before turning to the window and the road which remains vacant. His actions bother her, he knows; anyone who has the slightest acquaintance with her would know. And Teagan is a noble. He was raised to be a gentleman, taught by a mother who tried hard once his father disappeared, someone who spent hours to no end drilling him into social pretenses when all he wanted was a sword and maybe a real horse to replace the wooden one. Boys can frown and show dislike, grown man are supposed to accept everything with a smile and a nod. Isolde never saw his anger; he has learned long before she does not need his uglier side. Even now, she does not see it, blatant and obvious as it is.

"Are you well?" she asks prodding his attention, forcing herself into his thoughts as if she is not there already. She should not do this. Dear Maker, Isolde should ignore him because when he does not work, he thinks. When he thinks, he worries. When he worries, he remembers past actions and is angry.  _He is angry with her_ , that little ugly side grows and agrees, sings into his ear all the recriminations he could say but doesn't. It raises and pushes and Teagan fights back, smothers it before words can. A smile and a nod, nothing else. "Teagan. Teagan, please?"

Please? Please what, he wonders. To tell her what is wrong will lead to shouting. To speak to her about this will make his scabs tear and bleed, rub salt on the newly opened wounds. To speak is to realize there is hurt and unspoken problems between them. To say anything now will be to harm her in return. He cannot be that cruel.

"Teagan. I'm…"

"Stop." The china falls from her hands and shatters on the floor. The window loses his attention with a sole word. "Do not finish that sentence."

Determined, strong and stubborn, this is Isolde. His ideal had been something so similar, beautiful and caring –  _which she is_  – honest, gentle, giving –  _and that she isn't, not completely_. This woman in front of him is Eamon's Isolde not his. She is giving but those who matter to her always come first. She is honest but not always, that is whispered by her Orlesian blood and all the games she was raised into. Gentle, most of the times. Her lip curls when annoyed. A sharp gaze is enough to know there is steel beneath her bones, hidden well by a lady-like manner cultivated since birth. She is a good woman but she is not an ideal and she does not see.

"It is fine," the man tells her simply. "I understand." Teagan doesn't and he is lying but he smiles and nods, watches her face relax and breath ease as she believes his act. Isolde always closes her eyes to his uglier side. He can flaunt it in her face, hide it behind kind words and she will still be blind to it. She doesn't ask more than necessary and she believes.

He could tell her. He could explain that she cannot apologize because she does not see him, her actions, hurt nor shame –  _hide, lie, back away, pull away, ignore, betray_. Isolde cannot see he would still have come if she had trusted him, if she had told him the truth. If she had just been a little less herself, known him a little more, the woman would have remembered he would have protected both brother and nephew with a sword pointed at his heart. There can be no forgiveness without knowledge or regret.

He cannot tell her and so he lies, protects her in his brother's stead, someone who would have no wish to let her perjure herself further.

Time has passed, Teagan concludes, and Isolde isn't beautiful anymore.

Pretty but not beautiful.

 


	11. faith.

011\. _faith._

**xxxXXXxxx**

First, there had been Haven. For a village with such an inspiring name, it had been little more than a huge jumble of messy problems for the elf. Religious fanatics, a cult who would have made the Maker himself turn in shame if He hadn't been said to ignore his creations already, dragons and Sten. Maybe she should place aside a silver for each time someone tries to kill her. At the rate it is happening, she might just be rich in little more than a month.

The Caverns try her patience. The High Dragon makes her wish to be seven leagues on her way to Denerim. And the Gauntlet? That one makes her doubt herself, something she cannot afford to do at the time or until the Archdemon lies dead.

The elf isn't religious. Maker is a name she invokes rarely with meaning. For her, the entity is a watcher, someone who, if he ever cared, stopped doing so a long time before. Disappointment, perhaps; the elf can relate to that. Thing is, Tasha was never too religious to begin with. Maker is a name, the Creators are history, belonging to those generations who try obstinately to preserve the old traditions. Maker is nothing more than a name to her and the elf cannot truly say she is a pilgrim when the Guardian asks her so. She feels like a scavenger – a vulture as Morrigan called her one day.

Perhaps it is good – _though not really_  – that the Guardian seems to know her mind and thoughts as well as if she had spoken them. It makes passing by him much easier when she doesn't have to second guess herself and her reasons. It allows her to enjoy the journey through the Gauntlet which is just as mind-blowing as she could ever have imagined. _Shartan, to speak with Shartan_! Tasha is almost a little girl again, kneeling next to her dad and listening to the old stories with stars in her eyes. To speak with those who have seen a woman, a fighter in soul and body. She is not very religious but even she is awed and keeps silent on many moments. There is trust inside those walls, trust in herself and in those who walk with her. Which is truly amazing considering her doubts or the fact that Zevran and Sten walk right behind her.

It is the last obstacle which tries her patience, amazingly enough.

"Discard your earthly bonds and be renewed in the fire of the Maker."

She reads this and her eyebrow raises accordingly, eyes running through the words again and again as if to make sure she is, indeed, reading what she is reading. A holy experience, the guardian calls it. To be reborn as Andraste was. Last time she checked, Andraste was quite dead and none had seen her right by the Maker's side to say otherwise. And while the whole experience has been, on a whole, rather satisfying – minus the amount of attempts on her life she has suffered – Tasha is quite sure she can prove she trusts Andraste's disciples just as well with her equipment on. Especially since the armor has a certain fire resistance which comes really in handy at the moment. She just can't partake in this holy experience when all that comes to her mind are horribly mundane thoughts.

"Will it walk to us if we stare enough?" There's an idea. Maybe the fire will be put out if she stares long enough. Maybe the ceiling will fall. Maybe she will understand why Duncan hated elves enough to die before he was pushed into doing something as demeaning as stripping for a waste bin. No, sorry. A  _glorified_  waste bin with  _holy_  ashes. Morrigan probably feels as stupid about this situation as she does.

"If you don't do it, Sten will give the example."

She obviously does. Her eyes are staring hard enough to scald her neck. It also says letting that happen is clearly a Bad Idea, capitals and all. Do it or else. A little like her mother but far less scaly.

Alistair should be there, Tasha concedes. With some luck the mere idea of anything female stripping around him would bring enough blood to his face causing something distracting. Popping eyeballs, perhaps. And he would appreciate this so called holy experience which surely she isn't doing. A description of her thoughts done at a later date will have to include that the vision of Andraste was accompanied by dreams of stabbing Zevran's eyes out and how the Maker ended displaying strangely perverted practices. No wonder the cult ended badly, the elf reasons, they make pilgrims walk through fire while naked. Odd events generate stupid people -  _Humans_. Stupid  _humans_. Elves only make one drink pure water and pray, not throw themselves into fire and call it a cleansing.

"You know, I changed my mind."

_One, two..._

"We are turning back now?" Right on time, Sten.

Anytime before Haven, Tasha might have been bothered by the veiled chastising. Sten is logical, trustworthy, a good sword to have at your side. But the memories are too fresh in her mind and, in those, he sounds anything but what she had once thought of him. This time, the warden isn't inclined to explain herself. She saved his life, she spared it again in Haven, she has no wish to bother herself with a third fight. The duo shares a glance, a long look as if issuing yet another challenge. Sten comments nothing else and his eyes fall on the golden trinket. Danger passes by.

"To leave so close to the end? Should you not give the example, my dear Warden?"

The one example she wants to give involves turning back and throwing the other elf into the chasm on her way out. Clean, no blood stains, no perverted innuendo in between the simplest words. Maybe the recent events pushed her a little further than normal because the only reason Tasha can summon against her proposal is how an assassin can be quite handy at times.

Well, the chasm is still there, she concludes, the idea can be kept as a footnote just in case.

"No, we are still crossing," she replies simply, sheeting her blades for the first time in nearly twenty four hours. "But you are going ahead. And before you ask." Because he was about to, the leer in his face is enough to make even Sten have a sudden rush for modesty. "It's not that I want to see you naked. It's just that it's better to have a naked assassin burning himself than myself being naked and roasting. Off you go."

The Guardian might not be pleased but Morrigan's laughter is much more satisfying to hear. Shuffle of clothing after, barrier of fire left behind and an oddly annoyed elf after, the mage walks by the warden's side, laughter replaced by wryness.

"So what did we learn with this experience?"

"Cults are odd," Tasha says promptly, throwing the bag of ashes to Alistair once he is close enough. Carrying a dead woman's remains can only be done for so long. "Religious fanaticism is enlarged in small isolated communities, it should be stopped. Don't accept every mission which comes our way and stop following every fool's request. Andraste's servants were insane if they thought getting burned to death was proper. Someone in the Fade has to be perverted and it's not just Desire demons. And dragons should be killed, not worshipped."

"I was going to suggest bringing solely females next time."

"I was going to say I'm agnostic from now on. Can we leave?"

 


	12. wish.

012\. _wish_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Teagan likes the castle walls. Tasha likes the river side. They meet half way, first by chance, then as soon as she returns from whenever she was drafted to and he has managed to flee the army camp. These are stolen moments because there is too much to do, too many people requesting aid or attention. This is nothing more than personal time, shared because they know the other will not demand it to be destroyed. And who would suspect them to wander away, who would expect them to be together, to speak or be silent? It's a little secret, they both think, even though they know their respective parties and families might have an inkling to where their feet wander. When asked, they don't reply. Stolen moments are private, hardly supposed to be shared.

"What do you see for yourself in the future?"

He sits under the tree, the trunk a comfortable presence against his back. She sits down a little ahead, almost at the edge of the cliff where the sound of the falling water is stronger, the tall tree giving shade and respite. From their point of view, the world seems at peace. There is no blight, there is no civil war and they are not needed.

"Alienage. An arranged marriage with the shopkeeper. Half dozen children. Convincing everyone Soris'd be a bad choice for Hahren. Marry Cyrion to someone. Convincing everyone Shianni should be the Hahren. Some grey hairs. Grow old. Convince my husband I do not kill darkspawn for a living."

"Hahren?"

"Elder."

"Soris?"

"Male cousin."

"Shianni?"

"Female cousin."

"Cyrion?"

"Male father."

"Truly?"

"Yes, truly."

"I would have never guessed it."

"A human disability. Do not be concerned."

"What do you see for yourself in the future?"

"You already asked that."

"You lied."

"I'm an elf. By definition, I lack a proper code of honor and morals. And gold."

"You are a Grey Warden. By definition, you should not lie."

"Lies by omission are accepted. Never met Duncan, have you?"

"No. You lied outright, not by omission. Will you reply if I ask again?"

"No."

"What do you see…"

"Thought you wouldn't ask again."

"Just because you do not answer, it does not mean I cannot ask."

"Humans."

"The round ears gave me away, didn't they?

"The persistence. It is annoying."

"Should I ask again?"

" _No_."

"Then?"

"I'll kill the archdemon."

"And  _then_?"

"It will be dead."

"I would have never guessed that either."

"What can I say? I am horribly wise."

"I fail to see this wisdom of yours."

"Yet another disability. What do  _you_  see for my future?"

"The Alienage. A crowd of children with blue eyes, grey on your hair, you will be the Hahren, your cousin will marry the shopkeeper and your father will look after his grandchildren. No more killing darkspawn."

"Incomplete. You forgot Soris."

"Rainesfere for further conversations?"

"Forced to deal with your future wife? No."

"Redcliffe?"

"Your sister in law would have me jailed within the week."

"You shouldn't say those things."

"Will you tell her?"

"Not unless I wish to trouble Eamon."

"Then I can say these things. Is that all?"

"You will kill the archdemon."

"Very well dead. You know, you are an awful fortune teller."

"Am I?"

"You don't lie well enough."

"Perhaps I am wishing instead of lying."

"Then what else do you wish?"

There is no immediate reply. Tasha looks over her shoulder inquiringly, the pace of their strange game lost with his hesitation.

"My Lord?"

"Teagan." His eyes are somewhere above, somewhere beyond, looking at something she cannot phantom. What an odd human at times. Odd man.

"Teagan?"

"My name. Use it. That is your answer."

He is the Bann, she is the Warden. On that cliff, they are neither.


	13. hope.

013. _hope_.

xxxXXXxxx

There are different kinds of betrayal. That of the mind, that of the heart and that of the body. You can betray a promise you have done to another, you can betray a secret, you can betray an ideal, you can plunge a dagger into another's heart and twist without requiring a blade, you can kill another.

A thousand and so many more ways which are all unacceptable for a soldier of the Beresaad.

A word, once given, cannot be broken. Logic rules their lives, the good of their people guides their every step and action. Rarely do they find themselves alone and even then, they are expected to remember their lessons as if someone repeats them into their minds during sleep. Ever since arriving in Ferelden twice has Sten lacked this foresight and blood coats the guilt of his first mistake.

Disappointment surrounds his second.

Kadan is easily irritated but rarely angered. Trapped between unfamiliar walls -  _surrounded by unfamiliar mountains_  - pitted against the noble humans -  _facing one who she thought to be a comrade_  - her anger tastes like fire and acid on his tongue, touches everyone around her like a spell, like she can actually command magic. Her hands are closed tightly into fists, brow furrowed in such a manner that it forces him to wonder about the pain it will cause once she relaxes, eyes which seem iced over.

This is not her simple dislike for humans – one he could definitely sympathize if that were the case. It is something greater. To try to defend what one thinks to be right and to be shackled, to know exactly what needs to be done and to be stopped by something as simple as emotions, coldly foolish as vengeance. It is injustice and another sort of battle which she does not seem able to win -  _even though she won the last_.

This time, there is no support behind their leader. None raises their voice. It is also betrayal, he thinks, to be idle when action can be taken, to not follow your leader when it is required even if you, personally, do not share the same opinion. He has done so barely days before. And in that room, others follow his example, five promises of aid left untouched as if never spoken. Kadan realizes this, her eyes looking from one member of the audience to the other, wide and pleading and accusing.

Mages are feared, disliked, hated. In his country they wear leashes and their prison is far less great than the one housed in the Lake where he killed. This mage, in particular, is a murderer, a coward and Sten would be lying if he dared thinking he cares anything for this life. He'd kill it himself if given the chance.

Kadan, however, does.

Some say elves have little to no morals but Sten slowly learns Alienage elves cannot be thrown into the category  _elf_  and left it at that. They seem to have their own moral conduct, so strict and obvious that little they do falls away from it - or maybe that's just her, he has no term of comparison. She acts as if straying from that conduct will murder the connection she holds to her home. Another trait they share.

Kadan gives importance to different things. Repentance, atonement, courage, care, honor, the knowledge that there are actions that need to be paid for, all these are dear to her. And while others see guilt, a killer who failed by luck, a blood mage, she sees a man risking everything to save a boy instead of fleeing, someone who knew his actions were wrong and wishes to repent. That is why she tries to save him, Sten believes, the same reason why once she saved him.

"I would have him released," she declares bluntly. _If he is not, he will die. If he does not, he will not be truly alive_. Those are the laws regarding mages.

Kadan is a good leader, strong and fast but owning a tactical mind which can leave much to be desired. If bothered, Sten can tell her a dozen small problems with this suggestion of hers and force her to understand reality. This is neither a backwater country nor a little war to amuse the masses. This is a Blight and there is already one murderer watching her back and following her every step. Two, if he counts the elf.

He could, if he found it worthwhile. He could, if he hadn't betrayed her. He could, if he didn't trust her.

Ferelden, he hates Ferelden with his strange smells and dogs everywhere.

_What do you find strange about Ferelden? Do you feel homesick?_

He hates Lothering, the small village and the iron cage, the refuges and the cowardice filing the streets.

_I find myself in need of skilled help. This will be your atonement._

The Tower of Magi disgusts him, a golden prison and the Fade collapsing around him

_It is easier to quit. But you gave me your word, Sten._

And of them all, he hates Haven the most, the place who saw his disgrace, his dishonor and the one he cannot forget. He hates her words,  _fall behind me_ , understanding but not forgiving or forgetting. For someone like Sten, betrayal is not acceptable. For someone like him, to raise his blade against a leader is shameful. Better had he fallen on Asala that day, because his honor mocks him when not half dead and he follows but feels barely tolerated by her kindness instead of accepted by true kinship. He does not begrudge her; none can trust a betrayer and words cannot make everything right, even ones such as  _pardon_  and  _apology_.

He will not allow Redcliffe to become hated as well.

"Grey Wardens are needed," Sten says to the room, a simple comment as if spoken aloud merely by accident but spoken solely to her.

It takes her a whole total of thirty seconds to realize what he has declared, immediately followed by who has spoken. Her eyes widen, her mouth opens in a perfect circle –  _he wants to tell her to close it because she's being horribly obvious and losing any and all chance to impress others with quick wit and knowledge_. But Kadan nods, accepts, appreciates. He can almost believe she forgives when her smile appears.

"I invoke the right of conscription,"

And if she doesn't, at least Sten knows the path to redemption is not hopeless.

 


	14. belly.

014\. _belly_

**xxxXXXxxx**

Wynne doesn't know her own birthday. A child brought to circle rarely does and she was too small to remember such trivial things. She made up her own, celebrates it every year – even though she's steadily frozen in her fifties for the past twenty or so years and anyone who says otherwise finds itself facing a rather large stone fist. All in all, she doesn't pay it that much attention.

Which is one more reason to stop all of this confusion taking place just in front of her eyes. It is just a birthday. Just one birthday. It doesn't make any kind sense all of them are partying like the world will end tomorrow.

Oh alright, they are in the middle of Blight. The world might not end but they might certainly die tomorrow if they are not too careful. And there is also the problem about their traitor status. It certainly makes every odd idiot attempt to attack them in every empty clearing they pass. Sad because it's becoming that easy to predict. _Clearing? Prepare weapons and shields, they should be using the next hill. Careful, that tree is a very good hideout. Hrm, maybe we should avoid those five? They seem to be discussing our impending death._ A little pathetic.

Wynne is a Circle mage. The one thing they are thought above everything else – if one excludes the conversations about sin, blood magic and the danger of becoming an abomination – is duty. Duty cannot be forsworn. It must be taken head on, done before every personal detail, treated carefully and objectively because lives of others always come first.

A birthday, she can accept. A small celebration can be done – small because the Blight is destroying everything between them and Denerim and time spent is time wasted. This is just ridiculous. This is useless. This is _waste_.

Except the whole group doesn't think so. Elves and humans, qunari and mages, - _hmph_ \- even the blood mage and part of the soldiers from Redcliffe. They all eat and talk, their voices warning everything around them their exact location, number and yes, do not forget how many they are. Wynne tried to warn them, she truly did. The female elf laughed, – _of course, it was her idea_ – the Arl agreed almost piteously before being dragged by his soldiers, Alistair chose the time of her question to choke on his drink. And, in moments like these, the woman has the idea she's the only completely normal person in her small family – because Maker knows Alistair is odd, Leliana is trapped in her stories most of the time, Sten is just Sten, she won't even try to go into Morrigan and her leader is occasionally odd. Like now. This is hardly acceptable.

Surrounded by bones and an owner who just keeps laughing, rubbing his belly at random intervals, Assan stares and dares her to say so out loud.

_Well, fine._


	15. compromise.

015\. _compromise_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

The Grey Wardens collect party members as a child collects stones or trinkets.

Bard, Dwarf, Qunari, elf, templar, mage, mabari, it sounds like the beginning to a bad joke if one adds a tavern somewhere in the sentence. They walk through the Redcliffe party rarely, preferring their own company and conversations, odd in their lightness and companionship. And maybe the oddest thing in the whole situation is that they do seem normal. They speak and laugh, joke around and discuss the most varied subjects while their feet eat the path towards the capital and tiredness should have stolen their breath miles before. It seems like a picnic – with the odd beast attack thrown in just to underline how unsafe the world has become.

Teagan decides none of this can be considered normal when he overhears the male elf and the dwarf discuss how attractive the other is, in between a disturbing amount of insults. Both female mages seem to be arguing – all in a manner that seems to have been repeated countless times – bard and templar are lost in some philosophical debate he cannot begin to comprehend and the last members walk in the beginning of the group, Qunari by the Warden's right, the killer right by the Warden's left and her hand lost somewhere between the Mabari's fur.

The group from Redcliffe is larger, noisier and more imposing but the Grey Wardens distance themselves for being completely ignorant of those they accompany, overall indifferent and locked into their own universe. What for Redcliffe is a trip not many have done, for them it's nothing more than a stroll compared to the many travels repeated in the last months.

"Would you stop speaking of my bosom?"

A lovely idea. It is something the noble doesn't wish to hear about.

"Eh, you got small breasts for a gal."

Right.

"I have…thick ankles?"

Thick chest, arms, legs, head, virtually everything, Lady Golem.

"Once the Wardens flourished, their ranks full, their caliber certain. Now they even accept people like you, Alistair."

The little he hears is enough to wonder just how these people have managed to keep themselves on the road, unhurt and alive during this whole time. Conversations meld, fuse into one another while they walk, the Mabari barks for attention, is given, someone yells at him, there is laughter and chocking, coughing and metal shifting. They seem like a family – a very dysfunctional and overall wrong in many ways but a family – walking with the abandon of knowledge and the recklessness of experience. Whatever the disagreements between the different members, they know each other and – to some degree – care for one another.

"You knife-eared pipe-cleaner, you couldn't carry me on your best day!"  _Mostly_.

It is like a theater play, Teagan thinks, a comedy show with too much blood but that,  _somehow,_ still manages to cause laughter. Only that doesn't sound quite right and he spends the good part of half an hour trying to define the strange relationships. There is little else to do on the road, though if asked, the man might comment on the absence of bandits being result of the same group he has been observing. According to Tasha's detailed account of recent events – overheard during an irritated rant done to his brother – bandits are becoming rarer on the paths and much more abundant underneath them. It passes through his mind that – Darkspawn excluded – this is probably the safest the road to Denerim has been for the past year.

"Rather distracted, aren’t you, my Lord?"

Tasha appears out of nowhere, apparently oblivious – or perhaps simply not caring – that Eamon is close enough to eavesdrop, that there are soldiers all around ready to comment, that her own party has filled her absence in the conversation but still look at her randomly, Qunari and Mabari more than any. Making sure she hasn't been lost.

"I am focused," he says plainly. It is a half-truth, obvious in its simplicity. He is focused, just in all the wrong things. For example, her scale mail has finally been replaced, silverite shining like pure crystal, definitely much more protective than anything else he could have suggested. It suits her – sort of – but he cannot help but to notice how dwarfed she is by the men around her, by his own figure. So small, this woman. She could carry much more than two longswords and Teagan would still be inclined to dismiss her strength by appearance alone.

"Not at the present, I believe." Tasha's comment is his own put into voice, the former formality dropped but for a moment. He can see Eamon turning on his horse, head lowered, eyes confused –  _annoyed –_ with the loss of ceremony the Warden is indulging in. Teagan tries to silence him without words, to will his gaze away. This is one thing his brother has no right to dwell on, never mind the aggravation in his eyes or the fact that he doesn't seem to have forgotten for a single moment she saved the mage's life.

"You speak too much." It is supposed to sound as a joke and yet, even to him it sounds slightly bitter. After the mage's conscription, he is not sure she has forgiven him. He is not sure he forgives her either. It was his brother, what could he do but support him, wish for the mage's prison, at the very least?

"You speak too little," she sends back easily. It does not sound like a joke either, finally a low tone and just for him. She isn't speaking about his recent silence either. This is about another, one where she had needed aid and none was given bar from the Qunari. A possible argument floats between them, controlled solely by the crowd which keeps watching.

Teagan knows his face has turned impassive, the perfect reflection of Eamon's when angry, of his father's when he still lived. "He nearly killed my brother."

"He saved your nephew," she retorts bluntly.

"He is an apostate," Teagan continues.

"He is a good man."

"A  _blood mage_."

"Who used it  _save_  others! "

He wants to argue. He wants to raise his voice and let her know this discussion is foolish, that she is being an idiot – has been since saving the mage's life – that she, of all people, should understand what it is to have someone of blood laying for weeks in a bed, tipping onto death ever so often. She is supposed to know this is nothing to do with the fact that he is a blood mage – though that ranks high in his disgust – but the fact that Jowan tried killing  _his brother_. Sometimes Teagan is forced to notice that this elf can be an annoyingly irrational woman. Like now, staring up at him, stubborn glower, annoying, ever so annoying and he wants to shake her for baiting him and himself for being stupid enough to bite it so easily.

None of the two notices that they have stopped, staring at each other with what can be enmity and anger, frustration or lack of control. All of those together, Teagan realizes. He has gotten used to have her listen and understand, to hear half a dozen words and need no more. This is their first argument and they are having it in public, no less. Perhaps it is better. Half the things passing through his mind are spat, angry and hurtful. The others he cannot voice, not even in thought.

"I will not apologize for my feelings on this matter," he hisses under his breath, close enough to see her narrowed eyes, the darker blue which surrounds the irises.

"And I won't apologize for doing my duty. You should have…" Known better? Feel less, perhaps? Tasha doesn't seem to have finished her tirade – because a woman always has to be  _right_  and will not stop until the male has agreed – but her voice is cut off without permission, eyes widening, her body shuddering under her armor as if she has just been stabbed. It pushes Teagan's anger to the background for its suddenness just as she pushes away from him and the entire conversation is dropped.

"Darkspawn! Alistair! Alistair, to me!" She's already running ahead, her blades ready even before he realizes that something is wrong. Hell breaks loose.

They come from the floor, from the forest, from the shadows, Teagan cannot be certain. He just knows that the Grey Wardens are now around them, a cohesive unit divided into smaller sections. Back to back, warriors in the front –  _Tasha in front of him, her two blades in her hands, slipping, cutting, slashing with unexpected ease_  – mages at the back, their spells trickling down his body when he slides his blade out, his shield so he can join the others.

And then the creatures, snarling and biting without giving the defenders a chance to breathe.

How many times, he wonders as a sword comes too close, a blade too near, the Warden's own parrying, pushing him out of the way, himself following the movement because the Alpha aimed at her back. How many times has the group done this? All those trips, the weeks out of Redcliffe to Maker knows where, how many times were they caught in a fight like this?

 _Down you go. Do you wish to be beaten by an old woman?_ Too many times, their voices whisper in between the battle cries.  _Less fighting, more dying, blast you,_ yells the short woman in front of him even as her swords catch on flesh and rip it apart.

It ends as quickly as it started – a moment, a century – and then they are surrounded again solely by dead and dying. Even then the movement of the Wardens doesn't falter, already kneeling next to the bodies, knives stirring, finishing those still breathing, collecting what can be salvaged. This is gruesome, everything is gruesome. And in the mist of it all they still congratulate each other, insults and arguments forgotten because they fought side by side and won.

He kneels next to Tasha, hands resting on hers as she wrestles a particularly resistant piece of armor off the Alpha, pushing with her in time.

"I am still annoyed with you." Wry, her voice is dry, –  _a hint of tiredness somewhere in her tone_  - eyes avoiding his carefully while focusing on her task.

The man cannot find the will to be angry at her, not now, not when he has seen firsthand the kind of life she leads and why she does what she does. More importantly,  _why she did what she did_. Jowan, he cannot forgive. Tasha, he cannot blame.

Teagan takes wisdom where he can find it and, in their actions, he finds his answer. Gruesome or not, his hands aid hers when needed and he does not touch the subject of their argument again. It is useless to try. She has her reasons, which he tries to understand, even accept and he has blood, kin, those the mage harmed and that are reason enough for him to keep arguing. They will never find even ground on this subject, they will never understand each other completely.

"I dare say it is hardly going to be the last time." And that's fine. Tasha gifts him with a small look, a suspicious twitch of her lips betraying the last remnants of her supposedly annoyed mood. "Now pull. Though I do warn, good armor or not, I will not wear this."

After all, he concludes when she beats back a smile, relationships are built around concessions.

 


	16. wily.

016\. _wily_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

They don't like him. They really don't like him. They like him so little that maybe saying that is a horribly huge understatement as few are the times he receives a glance which isn't a glare or a glare that isn't murderous. No, the party really doesn't like him. There's the blood magic – which frightens them all – and there's the fact that he tried killing who most perceive to be their only hope – which wasn't  _completely_ his fault but see if he'll be stupid enough to say that out loud. Jowan wishes they'd just accept his presence because the simple fact that they accuse him at every corner and every moment makes it far harder to ignore his own guilt. It's not like he wants to forget –  _except he kind of does_  – but it would make his life easier.

Seems obvious why they keep treating him like something incredible disgusting, doesn't it?

It would be easier if he returned to the Tower, the mage thinks. His cheeks are filled with air and he blows it at random intervals, keeping his hair from falling near his eyes. Instead of walking, he stomps, literally bashes against the floor and the dog –  _Assian? Assin? Azin?_  – pats the ground by his side, lolling tongue following his rhythm. Which is also amazing. He had Lily, he had… –  _wait, not her, never think of her_  – Lily. Friends. A house. Now he has muddy paths, darkspawn and a soggy looking dog whose fur is permanently soaked in blood. It'd be easier if he had been made Tranquil, wouldn't it?

Maker, he is earning himself a migraine with these thoughts. A hand absently rubs his head as he continues to pace forward, following the dog –  _Aszan? Aslin? Aslan? …what is the damned dog's name?_  His legs hurt, his head hurts –  _a lot_  – and he has the impression he has never walked so much in his life. Dreams about the outside world never included so much walking. A small house, a bunch of kids, Lily in common clothing, his robes deep within a well somewhere. Those were his wishes. He had also thought of something remote like the Korcari Wilds – until he saw such wilds and realized his plans weren't supposed to include bugs and wolves in every corner.

"Would you pay attention?" A hand connects with the back of his neck, the resounding slap lingering in his ears. He has barely managed to regain any of his bearings –  _really, do people hate him this much for random moments of violence?_  – when a hand is stuck in front of his eyes, red and dripping. Blood.

His eyes follow the trail, follow the arm, follow up the body until the head and find the Warden.

He doesn't get it, a failure that is probably really bad because this woman is The Warden and the only one in the group who seems to care if he'll trip himself into a cliff when one's not looking. One fine day he might annoy her just a little too much, something that seems all too easy to take place, and then there will be Arl Eamon and the Templars and definitely not Aeonar. That one is for those who do not dwell on blood magic. No. For him, it will be emptiness –  _easy life_  – or oblivion.

"Aah!"

Tasha's uninjured hand slaps him again while the other comes even closer. It is still bleeding, Jowan realizes, still waiting and still presenting him with the blood.  _Does she want him to use it? Does she think he'll drink it? He doesn't like that. He just uses his and …_

"I'd like not to bleed to death before you heal it," the elf adds slowly, thankfully stopping his mental rambling though implying he's an idiot with each word. "Wynne has no mana. Morrigan leaves scars and I have enough of those to last for a lifetime. I'm hoping you can do better than that." And there goes his calm. The cut suddenly turned into an abysm and his magic flickers and trembles, sweating with him and in him. This is the woman who saved him, the only one who doesn't glare at him even though she does treat him as a rather stupid worm at times. He cannot ask for a better treatment and he really cannot afford to make her angry. Right?

"Well?" Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. He was never that bad at Healing. Surely, Primal and Entropy were always better, always fun –  _destroying is always fun,_   _she'd say and smile, a little fireball and no more desk and then someone yelling Amell over her laughter, ignoring the Templar. Who cares about them, she'd ask, and the them sounded so above and proud when she said it_  - The Warden taps her foot impatiently and he sees the small trails of blood sliding down her skin, down her arm, falling towards the ground where the dog wanders.

Jowan allows his fingers to touch her wound gently, carefully as if she's going to pull away from fear a second after –  _just joking, Jowan_  – but she doesn't. Even when the other Warden comes near, she doesn't. Even when they attempt to call her, she doesn't. The elf stares at him calmly –  _trustingly_  – and waits for him to work his magic.

Magic is a flow, like the blood on his veins or a river. A mage is the dam where it halts – though maybe that's just the way he sees himself as. He was never too good at stopping it and it rushes out without permission, backwards and then forward, mending and knitting a wound he has no idea where it was done and when. They haven't been in any fights for the past day. It takes a little too much of him for such a small spell.  _Which makes him think about Amell all over again, she would laugh, ah, you're so bad at control_ ,  _Jowan_. But it knits, mends and Tasha relaxes, stretching the now healed skin with a satisfied grin.

"Guess you are good for something, aren't you?" There's an approving nod in his direction –  _translated into the observation that the woman is obviously drunk_  – before she walks towards the rest of the group, Mabari close at her heels, nipping blood coated fingers. "Who would have known? A blood mage can actually be useful without bleeding everyone around. Wonders just keep popping up."  _Not drunk. Crazy_. "And stop stomping. It draws more darkspawn than my taint."

Jowan can bet his life, his blood and magic that the dog –  _Assan_  – is barking in disapproval. But he doesn't because Wynne is asking why she didn't ask  _her_  for help when she's the healer of the group, doesn't because there has been no fight since the day before and even then he's sure, he's just  _so sure_  that the Warden wasn't harmed. Especially not on a palm, a place usually found gripping a sword. Another bark and the dog bumps against his owner's legs, an owner who smiles smugly, pulling a glove into her hand which should have been there all along but  _wasn't_.

_Oh._

On the next day, it's the bard who requests his aid when the elder mage is busy.  _Then the Qunari. Then the dwarf. Then the Warden._  And it's not exactly  _easy_  to deal with – acceptance never is – but eventually, he finds himself not wishing for tall towers, distant swamps or closed gates _._

Although he still thinks the Warden is insane. Manipulative and insane.

 


	17. sister.

017\. _sister._

**xxxXXXxxx**

Alistair considered Redcliffe his home since childhood. He liked the place, he liked the family, he idolized Arl Eamon, the father he didn't have but wished. Shame Arl Eamon belonged to Isolde. Well, not _shame_ but Isolde acted like the man had to be exclusive, a belonging that couldn't be shared beyond her, Connor and Bann Teagan. He was extra and inconvenient, truly unneeded. He could have turned to the Bann, Alistair supposes, but Teagan was a distant uncle and just as the word said, distant. He was always less, less strong, less powerful, less imposing, just less and he held no shine for the boy. Basically, Alistair wanted _Eamon_ and everything else seemed like poor in comparison.

He took his hope away from the Arl as soon as the Chantry doors closed behind him.

Then Alistair thought of his brother. Maric was dead and he was a bastard – alright, so it was possibly a futile hope to begin with – but Cailan was his brother. Blood. Even if he couldn't say anything about that – Eamon had been quite direct with that particular detail – it didn't mean they couldn't speak a little. Maybe be friends? He could do friends. He could do friends very well. He'd even exchange his whole Templar training just to be a guard, a good guard, sort of personal one. Who would protect Cailan more than his family?

Tough luck with that hope too. It was torn and bashed, thrown into the corner like a used fabric with a sole word of his adoptive father – _and how did the man find out anyway?_ He had to have spies, he thinks, tons of , it was a hazard to keep a bastard so close to the King. Like Alistair was stupid enough to stab his brother in the back. He didn't even want to be king! He wanted family! He wanted someone missing him at night when he returned.

His next hope belonged to the Grey Wardens and, for a while, it worked out. He had Duncan who was the father Eamon had failed to be, brothers to replace Cailan who had ignored him ever so nicely, a family which battled by his side, for him and with him and it was perfect. There were darkspawn, tons of danger and excitement too but he could deal. He liked it. Stupid, right? To like that amount of blood in comparison to prayers and killing abominations and mages. Gosh, _why did_ he want to leave the Chantry so much? It was obviously better.

A big disgusting horde makes sure to bash that hope to the ground – _between blades, against walls, through the stones._ His heart is stabbed repeatedly every time he remembers the different members. It shatters into a thousand pieces every time he remembers Duncan. He wouldn't like it, the man would probably give him his disappointed look and Alistair would feel like a kicked puppy and fall in line. Only Duncan's dead so he allows himself to wallow in his pity when Tasha isn't around to literally kick him. Bossy woman.

Another little hope of his. The new Grey Warden. She is nice, she listens, alright, being pretty doesn't exactly harm the situation but, most of all, she seems to understand him. His grief, at least. Walking around through dark filled lands all bursting with darkspawn, it's just a setting for romance, isn't it? _Only not_. Guess he should be grateful she sent him on his way with kind words instead of the already mentioned kicks. He didn't get why, doesn't get why – _though the reason might be a little older and live around the south, he is keeping an eye on that situation –_ but things sometimes don't work out in the whole romance area. He can accept that. So that hope was neatly nipped before it grew and he moved on before his heart was too into it – though it still is, slightly. She is still pretty and he's not blind.

The last one catches him with the sweetness of a Bronto. Goldanna was supposed to be like the accounts of his mother he has heard, kind, lovable and welcoming. She is supposed to enjoy knowing she has a brother and not to ask about his pockets' financial health. She is supposed to be a ton of things and all he gets is a shrew with too many kids and a wish to leech off him that seems to bother even Morrigan. And Morrigan is evil. Very evil. _The_ Evil. She should be immune to this kind of stuff.

Alistair learned to hate hope. It is just useless and ruthless because every time he tries to rely on it, it turns around and bashes him enough to make sure he doesn't try anything as stupid again. Only he does. Maker, he has to be an idiot to keep throwing himself into these messes.

It takes him a while to realize he has been left alone to his wallowing – no, no wallowing. _Distress_ , thank you – and he spends that time wandering around the market. Nothing wants to kill him there, he can feel no darkspawn for the moment so this is the most peaceful moment in the last months. It feels lonely. And he's thinking about gathering all his courage – or the remains of it – to go face Eamon's words _again_ when the other Warden reappears, slipping her arm through his and dragging him along, her wayward child. _Not dignifying_.

But Tasha gives him her best attempt of an encouraging smile – which it is not that good and hardly an explanation to her actions – and he plays along when she leads him into the farthest corner of the market. There's bread and cheese – _cheese_ – on her satchel, on his hands before he can summon a plead. Maker, the woman's getting better with this.

"So," he begins while throwing himself to the floor. Watch the heir to the throne and fabled Grey Warden now, uncle. Eating cheese on the floor of a street like a commoner and feeling much more at ease than inside any stony castle. "Why here?" Her hand slaps his away from his mouth. Right, no licking fingers. The noise grates on her nerves, the disgust on her stomach and that just leads to more slapping.

"Because you're wallowing." _Distressing._ "And you might as well wallow where I can keep an eye on you. Besides, I could use help." _Eh?_

Tasha is eating the same as him, patting the crumbs away from her skin but noiselessly so he tries to ignore the sting on his hand from her previous slap. Her eyes, however, are stuck to the man guarding the gate to the Alienage, unwavering and plain creepy. Yesterday, she glared at the man like there was no tomorrow, clearly wishing to run him through with her sword for daring to bar her path. Today she just stares, ignoring whatever task they have to do.

 _Eh?_ is the only way to sum his thoughts, no matter how much he tries to make sense of this. "Not getting it."

That's a smile, he's sure that's a smile even though he cannot see her face properly. When he can, her eyes draw his attention. Bright, sunny, blue and amused, like the glint of a child up to mischief. He never sees her like this – mainly because they are always between fights and there's little to do but to be grim and sorry about all the blood they shed on a daily basis. That little hope tries very very hard to make an appearance only to be squashed by frantic chewing. No more hope. Hope equals bad.

"We have little to do bar the whole Peak situation and I'm not getting into that before the Landsmeet is over and done with. Someone might try to do Eamon before he gets to talk in your name." _Arl_ Eamon. _Arl_. Doing someone also sounded very wrong. Maybe he should tell her this. Maybe he should wait until she says this in front of Arl Eamon and watch for reactions. _Second wins_. "Mercenaries are scared." _Or dead._ "Bandits are dead." _And littering half the city._ "So instead of losing my time thinking about everything I cannot change or allowing you to wallow because you were granted lousy luck in family, we are going to be productive."

She resumes her staring and Alistair tries, he tries so hard to keep the obvious question inside. "…I don't get it," he repeats. "How is this productive?"

"Why," There's the eerie smile all over again. "If I have to be kept away from my home by this little Shem." _Note to self, no more Dalish._ "Then I might as well spend the time I'd brood about not entering in making him uncomfortable. Look, sweating already. The one yesterday was far sturdier. Besides, it's keeping you from thinking too much, isn't it?"

Alright, so she is sort of correct. Sort of. Not totally.

"Family is made by blood, Alistair. You can't change that." An apple into his hands, a pat on his shoulder, the sound of eating touches his ears, common and simple things surrounded by the calm tone of voice she uses at times. "Mine is in there, yours is on another street but I am right here. Brother and sister, Grey Warden, isn't that right?" No pity, don't pity me, he pleads. And she doesn't. She sympathizes. "Mourn her. I'll miss mine with you. This is what family does."

Alistair gives up on hope there and then – _brother and sister, not lovers but family_ – and he mourns his sister, his brother, his father who wasn't and the father who was. But Hope is a bad thing and this certainty, knowing that there's someone around to sit with him in a cold street, to eat and speak nonsense. This certainty is far better than any hope.

They scare off three guards before they are found.


	18. ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention. Odd change of pace and timeline. References to the DLC Leliana's Song.

018\. _ghost_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

" _Who are you taking?"_

" _Wynne. Sten. Leliana."_

" _Not Alistair?"_

" _I'm stupid enough to enter a trap, not to drag the heir of the throne with me."_

" _Maybe take more powerful members then? Shale?"_

" _If you know anything else than can draw more attention than a golem who goes around calling people 'it', I'm all ears."_

Leliana agrees with Sten nowadays. She knows this is needed, understands the reasoning behind the requests done but it looks like the Warden – and the entire party by association – is being sidetracked to Orlais on her way to the Archdemon. The path seems neverending and it's beginning to take its toll. Some hardly sleep, comrades whisper of nightmares which neither her leader nor Alistair seem inclined to explain. In the little time they have free, they spend near each other, basking in the slight protection and the presence of whatever weapons which happen to be nearby. Tasha, well, that one leaves at times only to pace near the gate that leads to Alienage. If the guard didn't dislike her so much, they'd be on speaking terms already.

It is all very annoying.

" _Why aren't…"_

" _Others being sent? You tell me. Alas, I am the current do it all of the court. Warden, elf, servant, all the same thing."_

" _He trusts you. I trust you."_

" _At this point I'd prefer not to be trusted this much. It's becoming slightly hard to evade all the knives on my back."_

Nevertheless, she doesn't need to think twice when Tasha asks her to accompany the small party. She tries to ask, even though they all know it's a nicely disguised order. The personal touch to it is just a small bonus. Not that Leliana wants to go. The palace brings too many memories to her mind and none of them are pleasant, hardly even decent. She remembers windows and laughter, a beautiful room, passing through guards like shadows – _shackles on her hands and cold laughter in her ears_.

The bard doesn't want to go, tapping fingers against her armor in silent rhythm, waiting for the preparations to be finished. She doesn't want to go but says nothing because Tasha is cleaning her blade, eyes unfocussed and lost somewhere. The blade is already clean and has been for the past twenty minutes. No one says anything and especially not her who keeps tapping away.

Anyone can see the elf doesn't want to go anywhere either but there is really no other choice. And so they leave.

" _Why are you so bothered?"_

" _The Blight rages outside and I'm searching for royals."_

" _You're lying."_

" _Which part? Blight or royal? Because darkspawn knocking at the gates beg to differ and I have this Orlesian elf around whose accent makes my blood shudder."_

" _What you do not say is more important."_

The Palace of the Arl has changed little over the last years. The security is just as ridiculous as she remembers too. Some guards here, some guards there, a lot of servants and still none notices the addition to the staff in form of a huge Qunari and a feeble looking old woman. Springy chicken, she is not. Might as well thank the Maker for small miracles while she can. Soon enough, they are crossing the entrance and she's on the one place where she doesn't wish to be, where no miracles can aid her. Leliana knows this door, knows the wood, knows the stonework, knows the hallway.

There's the slight urge to flee, danger and warning flowing through her veins instead of her blood, chilling and horrifying. The handmaiden's accent clearly does not help.

A hand touches her elbow, light and fleeting, disappearing the next moment as Tasha walks forward and engages the closed door.

" _This is needed."_

" _Yes."_

" _I must do it."_

" _It seems there is no other choice."_

" _Then what I don't say clearly doesn't matter. Has to be done anyway."_

The Warden takes the lead as they run through the palace. It's odd. Leliana knows the way, she can walk through those halls with her eyes closed because that night is still branded on her memory. Branded on her very bones and on the scars above her stomach. But Tasha walks as if she knows the path just as well. She doesn't care to wait for the maid's explanation, doesn't even pause when choosing whether to turn right or left. She just runs ahead, metal covered feet clacking noisily with each step, one blade trembling slightly in her wake. Leliana can almost wonder if she ever worked in the Palace before.

That question lasts until the small party enters the room, the main room, and the elf stops. Just stops. Like there is nothing else to do and no one to find, she freezes in its middle, the most puzzling expression on her face. It seems a little like betrayal and remorse, too much like loathing – of herself or another, the bard cannot be sure.

"Hm." Nothing but a soft sound. "They cleaned the blood well. Carpet seems new."

Tasha leaves before anyone can try to comment.

" _I could go instead."_

_Laughter. Amused, dry, fake laughter. "No. No, you can't. Your brother would kill us both."_

_"So it is better to leave you to danger?"_

" _We're old friends. It's learning to attack from the front lately."_

The dungeon makes everything even worse. She's trembling herself as soon as they enter it, her breathing harsh and pained. Bards don't stay in the same place for long. When there is danger, they know it, they recognize it, they run. Her bow keeps failing faintly in her hands and she knows – oh she just knows – the years in Lothering didn't erase memories. You can't erase memories. You can only confront them and expect the pain to ease with time. Marjolaine might lay dead with the Commander by her side but, in her memories, they both live and she can feel the blunt edge of the dagger on her flesh.

It hurts all over again.

"Leliana. Leliana, I need you to focus." Tasha kneels by her side as she struggles with a lock. "I don't know why you're like this but I need you to focus. I need it."

Her hand is also shaking when it grips her wrist and the need in her voice means even more than her words do. Both of them are walking on the edge of a blade, the edge of sanity and about to fall apart. She is a brick and Tasha is the house, her words mean. Without her, she'll fall apart. Is it pretentious to think this?

Despair in blue eyes says it is not and Leliana suddenly feels like she's a house too.

" _When?"_

" _Half an hour, perhaps? The situation is truly dire. Or will be. Likely both."_

" _Take the Golem. If it's already dire, who will notice?"_

" _A giant walking boulder?"_

" _Howe's guards have the tendency to be chosen among the stupidest men of Denerim. You never know."_

The battle is too difficult. They have only arrived two days before and their bodies have still to catch up. Even the Warden shows signs of fatigue though Leliana swears it's not just that. There is more weighting the elf's blade. Tasha is not herself in that place just as she is little more than the woman who crossed that same place years before, a hand on a bleeding flesh, a borrowed sword in her hand. They struggle with more than their enemy. They struggle with their past.

"Finally." Howe falls to their feet, cursing their names with his last breath, the cursed disgusting man. "Arl's son. Now an Arl. Guess the regent is next? Maker, Alistair is in trouble if I keep going." Hysteria. The ghosts are wining.

"Tasha?" Wynne frowns deeply, all of her open concern and obvious confusion. She tries reaching out but the Warden evades as if any and all touch are forbidden. As if her life hangs on keeping her distance. Her sanity does, at least.

"I'm fine."

She's not. She's lying. Leliana can tell.

_Laughter. A little truthful this time. "I don't think I can trust them to be that stupid."_

" _One never knows. We are human."_

" _Blind and oblivious."_

" _It must not be good to have no wish to contradict you."_

" _It would not work."_

" _I know."_

" _Wise, my Lord."_

Antiva has a long tradition of royal betrayals being on the order of the day. Ferelden, however, seems to thrive more on honor than anything else. This royal missed that lesson because the way she accuses them – the warden – is truly worthy of any antivian bastard. She'd make a good bard, Leliana considers before drowning the thought underneath both anger and disgust. Despicable, self-serving, dishonorable woman, Marjolaine incarnate if the other had not died merely weeks before.

"You double-crossing bitch." Tasha utters those words loudly enough and then loses them in a bout of laughter. "Humans. I think I can expect a blow from the front, they go through the back. Truly amazing."

There's a movement by her side, slow, Sten moving as if to place himself near the brunt of a future battle but the elf is there and her hands are raising, her blade falling to the floor in surrender. Surrender. This is not right. This is all wrong.

"Tasha? What are you…?"

Her eyes say one thing, her lips smile, she doesn't look frantic anymore so Leliana is for her. They defeated a whole Palace, this is just one more group of soldiers, it is not that hard to do, is it? They cannot give in because _the Commander will kill them._ Everyone will die _just like Tug_ , she has to know that.

A hand touches her arm once more, grips lightly and slips away, her path cleared of more blood and death for once. "Trust me." The whisper says. "You need out and I keep my promises. I always keep my promises. Go home." The past shackles them both and the memories attached to that place refuse to leave. But Leliana looks at Tasha, Tasha looks at Leliana and they both nod, agree, want to leave. That place cannot hold them prisoner if they are not there. They can fight if they are not there. _They want out_.

And so they leave.

" _Return unharmed."_

" _That is a hard promise to keep."_

" _Then simply return."_

"The Warden?" Teagan is the first person she sees when they enter the Estate, running as if the demons are at their heels, pushing the Queen with them without the slightest touch of care. And Leliana wants to keep running – _Eamon will know what to do, how to save her, where to go_ – and yet stops because his voice sounds worried – almost frantic or does she read too much into it?

The hand gripping her wrist says she is not.

"She's fine," Leliana hears herself say. Tasha is not there, she is not fine but if she were, if she was right by the bard's side, she'd lie too. So Leliana lies in her stead.

He seems to know.


	19. torture.

019.  _torture_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

"I'll eventually leave this place, one way or the other."

The elf – the Warden – does not bother to raise her head from crossed arms when her visitor enters. Naked back against the wall behind her, it is an innocent way to keep herself from facing the reality. This is a prison. Here there is no dignity, no clothing, not the slightest touch of warmth and decency. There is no pride for someone who is kept behind bars not even faked. Whether the woman knows it or not, Cauthrien cannot be sure. Nevertheless, she tries to shroud herself in a parody of them, tries to relax even though her cell is close enough to overhear screams from the torture chambers, a chamber which will soon be hers.

Has been.  _Will be_.

The torturers are rather interested on the resilience the taint can give to an elf. Alistair is their next subject of interest once he is caught.

 _Howe's_  men. Disgusting little bunch. The Commander has lost the count of the times she has tried to convince her General that they are – Howe was – not to be trusted. So far, it is quite useless. The Teyrn is nothing but set in his ways.

"Perhaps." Deadpan and dry, Cauthrien sounds. Emotionless. There is no reason to become involved with this woman. "Alive is a different matter."

Shivers run up and down the girl's arms, trembling that cannot be avoided or hidden, and no proper reply is given to her comment. Thinking, maybe, inventing a plausible one or earning herself time before everything restarts. When the elf's head eventually raises – white patches of skin between black – she has a little knowing –  _annoying_  – shine to her eyes. As if she knows something others do not, as if there is an answer to her current predicament.  _A lie_. Dreaming and wishing will not make it so. Nothing here will be just fine, turned around and used to her advantage. This is Cauthrien's territory and she wills it to be so.

A shame the Commander has been in Ostagar _. Lothering. Brecilian Forest_. Even the dwarves carry her stories nowadays, whispering of the one who gave them a King. Half must be exaggerated –  _this girl is barely twenty, hardly a giant with arms of stone_  - but still. It makes the Commander doubt her own certainty.

"Will that bring you an advantage?" The elf moves just barely, bare feet avoiding cautiously all the puddles of unknown origin which litter the small cell. There is an edge of calculation whispering through her words now, a flash of something Cauthrien had yet to see in the girl "The Teyrn is not Howe. That one delighted in treachery. Did you hear what he did to Highever?" A blank gaze, a surprised start and the knowledge of whom she is speaking with.  _Stupid girl_.

"Of course you did," she continues as if her question had never been made. "You are the Teyrn's second. I'd be surprised if something as big as the murder of an entire noble family was ignored and kept a secret. I wonder…did he feel any remorse for killing his best friend? Did he truly wish to kill the children? The women? The servants? He certainly didn't seem like he regretted it." The body had been stabbed multiple times, again and again, blood staining walls and floor alike. "Murderer, disgusting little wretch. It is a death I don’t regret. He would have killed me for pleasure alone."

A small pause in her monologue as the Warden frowns at the floor, apparently thoughtful. "Maybe not killed. He looked like a man who enjoyed to play with his food. But that wasn't my original point."

Which means she might go back to the actual answer the Commander wanted?  _Amazing_. She chatters like an old woman, this girl. Or this is also another way of playing? Hiding? They know so little about this woman, Cauthrien realizes. There's the basic. Warden, the elf from the Alienage who was conscripted after murdering the Arl of Denerim's son, one of the survivors of Ostagar, dreadfully stubborn and someone who just refuses to die. There are enough bodies on the roads to prove that.

"The Teyrn doesn't need me dead," the woman breaks her pattern of thought once more. Absently, arms hugging her knees closer and tighter. "In fact, killing me would just prove that he fears the Landsmeet enough to kill one of the advocates for the other side. And even if I do die, then what? I am not the heir of the throne, I am not the only Warden and Eamon is quite alive. The Landsmeet is still happening, Commander. Myself being alive or not, it's not truly a matter of worry.” Her eyes raise, dark, blue and ever so certain. “I'm  _expendable_ _, Commander._ "

Everything said sounds reasonable, stated in an empty tone at odds with both place and situation, one which could have been used to refer to someone else, one that she would have used. It is like the battle has already been fought long ago and not one which will decide the elf's life. She speaks as if detached, as if her death is already accepted and expected.

"Am I wrong?" The elf asks, lifting her chin slightly. She is not but Cauthrien sees no reason to tell her so. "Dead or alive, I'm leaving. I'm sure you'll be slightly honorable and deliver me to the Alienage? I would like to rest where I was born. Sentimentalism."

"Or we can just let you rot in here," the Commander's voice states, clearly without permission.

A ridiculously small hand waves the feeble comment away. "You could try that. But that would give me time and with enough time I could just find my way out. The Teyrn wouldn't chance that. It'd give the others time to place Alistair on the throne." And there's that  _certainty_  again, the one she sees in her Commander at times, though far less grating to her nerves. "Loghain's case is ridiculous without Anora's proper support. And blood can only help so far when we see our own father descend into madness. You did notice she slipped away when you looked elsewhere? Yes. I wish I didn't need her."

Anger. The Commander is so angry she feels like opening that door and running the elf through with her blade, just like she should have done in the Palace. Because the stupid woman is being almost sensible and honest while speaking all the doubts which have crossed Cauthrien's mind since Ostagar. Having doubts is normal. No human can live without doubting things at times. Doubting the right reasons, the right ideas, an action or a feeling. That is normal. She is not normal. Her actions are like arrows, straight and to the target. Her life is straight, her honor spotless and that is exactly how the Commander likes it. No doubts, no questions, just satisfaction.

She likes her life tidy. Where to place things, where to eat, how to work. Her desk in the Castle is immaculate mainly because she hardly touches that room. Her sword is cleaned every two days – the cloth is always passed from top to bottom – and her only two dresses are kept religious to the side – even if they only leave the closet for her Regent's birthday or, if forced, his daughter's. Ostagar was the bump in her ink bottle. The Grey Wardens are the elbows constantly dragging the ink around. The Commander hates it and she hates them.

The elf sighs just barely and finally – dear Maker,  _finally_  – stops reflecting out loud.

"I'm wearing out my welcome already. I am sure you didn't drop by just to hear me ramble. Maker knows most of you don't even think I'm worthy to keep inside a cell, never mind pay attention to. Did you need anything?"

Her life back on track would be a good beginning but this woman can hardly help other than turning it upside down for the hundredth time.

"No," Cauthrien forces through her lips. "I was sent to make sure you were alive. You are. I will be leaving now."

"That's good.” Leaning once more against the wall, Cauthrien wonders whether she feels her skin shivering and shriveling with the cold sweeping through the compartment. “I prefer their kind of torture to yours. Yours has a purpose and it's far more effective."

Cauthrien doesn't doubt she will try to leave as soon as possible. She should kill her right now and evade a risk. No more torture, no more dishonor, no more danger. But wouldn't that mean she fears the truth and the battle that comes? She cannot doubt her own reasons to fight.

Anger becomes hatred, hatred becomes disgust, disgust shifts into annoyance once more and tries to evolve further. Respect can still a blade as quickly as care or love and her respect is solely to the man who took her under his wing so long before. Not to a foolish elf who doesn't realize she lays in her tomb. Cauthrien decides to leave before any sort of respect decides to grow in her heart, her steps strong and noisy towards the entrance.

She pretends not to see Tasha sitting on the floor, hiding her head as harsh breaths replace false calm and all bravado fades away. The elf does realize where she stands, sees her tomb all around, a prison which will house her last days.

It was Cauthrien to remind her of this knowledge.

She feels like a torturer.

 


	20. reward.

020\. _reward._

**xxxXXXxxx**

"It bit me!"

So? No one cares. Assan fixes a large brown eye on her, careless and unforgiving. Ah. Why should he care about her complaints?

Dimwitted does. It listens, head bowed. _Idiot_.

"You don't understand." Yes, he does. Everyone does. Even Assan does. They just don't care. He knows they don't. Everyone has been glaring at the woman non stop so of course they don't. "Teagan." _Dimwitted_. "This filthy mongrel bit me!"

Not filthy mongrel. Proud pure bred Mabari. _Sweet valiant warrior_. Guardian. Protector. He protects her. Not Mongrel. Never Mongrel. Perhaps he shouldn't have bit this thing, she is this stupid and reckless. Were she blood, he'd help her against the world.

She's not. He doesn't like her. In fact, the other hand looks apetizing from where he sits. The blood tasted bland but he can ignore that with a little scorn in the mix.

Dimwitted doesn't reply to her comments. Slow, very slow, very _very_ slow human. He didn't change much. Instead of talking, he grabs some fabric and begins tugging it around Stupid's hand. Which is bad. The injury is still red. Red means it should be healed. But the old mother always yells when it's green because green comes after red and when it's green it hurts more. They should wait until it's green and hurts. Stupid deserves it. Deserves even more, her body broken and shattered and dragged through the streets but he's good, he's a good boy. His elf said _keep safe_ so he keeps safe but not uninjured. And he hates this woman, how he hates her.

A growl escapes before Assan can stop it. Stupid shivers. Good. She should. If she knew how much he wants to hurt her, _bite and scratch and drag her all over,_ she'd be doing more than shivering. Something like running. Useless. _He's a great warrior and always always catches the prey._

Dimwitted looks at him. Smells like sweat and blood, bland and bitter. He understands.

"He's the Warden's Mabari, my Queen. You cannot expect anything else."

Understands but doesn't. He's not the elf's, the elf is his. His and solely his. His since she came from wherever, all scrawny bones and taunt skin beneath leather, smelling like something sugary and salty with flowers on her hands. Stupid – _dark-blooded, black-hearted_ – harmed his elf so he harmed her in return. Blood in his teeth is bland and almost sweet while the elf's is bitter and dark like poison. She's bleeding, he knows. She's bleeding because of this woman. So he makes her bleed, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. _How he hates her._

Assan doesn't pay attention to their words. Where he is concerned, they're both stupid and idiotic and she's more than a little betrayer – _a huge disgusting betrayer, the snake on the grass, the wolf in their mist and Mabari kill both snakes and wolves_. He keeps both eyes on her, large and unblinking and smells her blood. Satisfied, just a little.

"Assan."

 _Dimwitted_.

The man is leaving and right by his side when a hand creeps out. Creeps and creeps and oh scratch. Scratch is good. Scratch _there_ is better. He likes that. _..wait_. Is this bribery? Bribery for what? And if it is, where's the bone and what does he want? No more biting? Scratch, scratch, ears, ears are nice. _Huh._ The _human_ can continue, he'll allow it.

"Good boy."

 _I know. Keep scratching_.


	21. father.

021\. _father_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

It has been a long time since he has seen his father. It has been even longer since he has felt truly like a son, like a child to be protected. That's what happens when one's raised in a country in war, when the only house one manages to know is on the road with four wheels underneath it. It has been a very long time since those days, enough to make him feel old and degenerating.

Even so, Eamon suddenly feels five because he wishes for his father more than anything. Connor is still young; he doesn't need to hear about certain subjects just yet. And Teagan, Teagan is already old –  _which sadly makes him feel ancient instead of just old_  – and shouldn't need a father to speak certain things to him. Except he does. And there is no one but him to take up the task.

The worse is that it has to be spoken. His brother is falling into a trap without even realizing it – or realizing it but truly caring little about it. He's giving in without a fight, pursuing something which, likely, has already been used by many. He should know better. He usually knows better. Eamon cannot remember the last time when he had to remember his brother to step back and not take a foolish step. They grew up fast. He became the Arl and Teagan became the Bann, something that gave them guidelines and a secure future, a duty attached which they cannot ignore. Except his brother is.

For once, the Castle is quiet. The Warden’s group left early that morning – to raid Fort Drakon of all places, Maker knows it is necessary but Eamon cannot help but shudder at the sheer inanity of the situation. Without the dwarf or the Golem, half the commotion in the space seems to lessen by a great deal.

It is the perfect moment. The office is quiet, just the two of them and servants somewhere outside where no word can be overheard.

"You cannot," Eamon starts. Though not the best start because Teagan stares at him oddly, confusedly, probably wondering just what he's talking about or if he's hallucinating. Instead of asking anything, however, he pushes his book aside and waits in silence. This is also something he installed in his brother since young. When he speaks, Teagan is supposed to listen. It was always like this and it will not change easily.

He thinks. Hopes.  _Hrm._

Eamon knows now that he shouldn't have stayed away from Rainesfere for so long. It was true, he had Isolde to look after, Connor to dote on and Teagan was a grown man. But even grown men need a steady presence, something he had not exactly been in the last years. It takes another long look at his brother for Eamon to notice that  _yes_ , his brother has changed and not just physically. Back straight and proud, even when facing his brother, a carefully curious expression which is just barely there, a few more lines in a face which used to laugh ever so often.  _Older_.

"Elaborate." It does not sound like a request. Eamon allows his elbows to rest on the table in front of him, chin leaning on carefully entwined fingers. There is none of the exuberance of youth in his brother's voice. Nor can he hear impatience, annoyance, anything bar politeness. It feels like a barrier between them or that they have ceased to be proper siblings, he does not know which. A stupid conclusion, of course.

"The Warden." No reaction. "The elf." It feels like a treasure hunt, to give small clues at a time so someone will be able to reach the prize. A futile gift, it seems, because Teagan continues bearing that oddly blank expression, his confusion not just apparent but impersonating outright stupidity. "You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I do not understand." A little crease forms in his forehead, little veins, small lines. That's his father, that's all his father, just like the way to wait, the expression, the dark hair, that's all  _their_  father. "Did they not leave to get her? She is fine, I'm sure. The Teyrn cannot afford to harm her without a public trial." To get  _her_.  _She_  is fine,  _she_  is not harmed.  _This_  is what Eamon means. Teagan is thinking of her and not even realizing he is – or maybe he is? Well, he is thinking of  _something_  and it's no longer anything Eamon might have said.

The drum in the back of his head would be a migraine.

"Teagan. They are fine." 

 _They_. Plural. The right way to address the entire party and keep the conversation from focusing on the Warden. Though it was supposed to be focused on her to begin with. Or rather, on the need not to focus on her. Eamon feels his migraine widen with that pattern of thought and has to take a moment to thank the Maker about Connor's age. Doing this again once he stepped in Redcliffe –  _the Tower_  – would be far too much for his sanity.

"This is what I mean," he continues. "Notice your conclusion? Your immediate question? This has occupied your mind for the past months and clearly, it cannot continue. It will lead to nothing."

Thoughtful expression vanishes into that blank one, confused and oddly childish. It is like Teagan truly does not understand what Eamon is talking about. Half of Redcliffe has already understood –  _will the Bann marry quickly? The Lady will be a good leader. Oh a Grey Warden so near, that would be wonderful, would it not? We would be safe. Does the Lady need anything? Does the Bann need aid? Should we begin preparations? We must speak with the Revered Mother._ If he listened to his people properly, both his brother and the woman would be in white and inside a Chantry. Only he does not, especially not in this.

A Warden she might be and Eamon appreciates. She saved his Arling, his life, his family's and Maker knows he cannot forget any of these things – his people would not allow him to, at any rate.

Despite all this, she is still what she  _is_. An elf, a low born woman and a warrior who is forbidden by old laws to bear titles. A murderer if the rumors are correct though he allows himself to forget that. He had met the heir of Denerim and that boy spelled trouble from the second he was allowed to stand. She is just not good enough. Not for the Bann of Rainesfere, not for a Guerrin and especially not for  _his_  brother.

"This cannot continue?" Still blank, still carefully hidden – or still truly oblivious. Teagan's gaze seems so innocent in that moment, endearing in its lack of understanding. But he has to understand, he must understand, he cannot not understand. No half-elf can be heir to the Bann and definitely not the child of a unnamed Warden. "This what? The elf what? What do you mean?"

And then suddenly, unexpectedly the tables turn, Teagan's gaze changes, piercing and harsh as Eamon has never seen it directed at himself. Like a blunt sword, comprehension seems to mirror itself in his gaze. This is the right moment. Eamon knows he should continue. He knows he should say his thoughts –  _not good enough, not rich enough, not pure enough, never enough for you_  – but the barrier between just grew and all the words he thinks are like rocks thrown into that wall. Rocks bring harm.

His brother rises from his chair, patting his clothing absently before straightening. It feels as if a cliff forms with him, between them as a Castle's walls.

"I thought you, of all people, would understand. Not all is in our reach." Isolde was Orlesian. Isolde was forbidden, something he could not, should not have pursued but still had. But Isolde was  _noble_. "You read too much into this, brother," Teagan continues calmly, blunt but calmly because he is still well taught and no tone is raised to his brother. "I search for companionship only, I wish nothing else. I cannot have anything else. But had I wanted it, your words would hardly stop me." But that's just it. He does want it, Eamon wants to say. He wants it enough to worry over her, to ask about her presence, to search for it when no one can find her. He does wants, can he not see?

_Maybe he cannot._

The closed door is no more and the tall form is already leaving, callous and caring little for Eamon's good intentions –  _because good intentions do not always cause good consequences_. He does not understand.

"Teagan!"

His brother stops for a last look, a pleasant smile and the subject seems far away from his mind if one looks at his expression. It makes him look less and less like the Teagan in Eamon's memories. "Tasha," he declares. "She saved our lives. Use her name."

Teagan cannot see his wishes. He is blind, in pure denial, ignoring obvious conclusions as a teenager would and not forcing himself to reach any truthful conclusion. He cannot see.

And Eamon who does see, who does realize all these things age has taught him, feels like he has just pushed them and her into the sunlight, right where his brother cannot help but see them.

Silently, he apologizes to his father.

 


	22. failure.

022. _failure._

**xxxXXXxxx**

This is not something that happens often. Really. He can't remember the last time it happened. And that's not because he choose to bury it deep within his subconscious. It just _doesn't_ happen. Zevran looks to the warrior he had been trying to convince for the past five minutes. Trying because the woman – well, seemed like one for the shape – had been staring at him from underneath her helm for that same amount of time. Anything and everything he says just seems to go in one ear, out the other. And he is using all his charm too. If he does anything else, my, he might just have to shed the armor and drag her some place darker and more private.

"What are you two idiots doing here?" A new answer to his advances, indeed.

Is she an old matron? Maker, is she a man? No, those are _definitely_ breasts. A little on the small size but not all can be well endowed. He isn't picky when it comes to breasts. Peach sized, apple sized, orange sized, all of it can be fondled. Of course, he does like a bit of meat on his bones, supple and very easy to grope. Yes. If he continues on this path of thought, he will definitely need the private room. Maybe an extra visit to the Pearl. And right, she's asking something.

"Delivering something." Sten sounds convincing. Almost as convincing as a five year old and slightly less than someone mentally impaired. Assan would have done it better.

The woman laughs, a small snicker drowned between the gloves of her armor for whatever reason. The only reason he knows is the one currently bashing his pride to oblivion. He is not this bad at bluffing. How can he not charm one small little female? Very small, by the way. Extremely small. She is slightly smaller than he is if he doesn't count the helm. If he had to hazard a guess, he'd chance her to reach a little more than his eye line. Cute. Childish. He had no idea they needed rogues in this place. Small as she is, that's probably the only thing the woman's good for.

Or, you know, _something else_. Maker's breath, it has to be his failed flirting. The Pearl is becoming a necessity by the moment. Yes.

"You two," she begins, pointing at both Qunari and elf. "Are ridiculous. Truly. Were also supposed to be smarter than this. Don't you bluff people for a living?" Actually, he just kills them. The bluffing is just an added talent. "Why didn't Leliana come? Morrigan? Morrigan can lie much better than you, Sten. Don't try deceiving anyone. With your face, it just doesn't work. What made you think you can get into this place? Not that I don't appreciate it or anything because, truly, I do, but I'm glad I got out. Otherwise."

Light impression he should be feeling incredibly stupid in this particular moment coming up.

Not that tall, not that wide, small breasts, nice posterior, apparently he has been flirting non stop with and then he failed and didn't notice and right, he forgot to use his Maker given eyes. "How did you get through the first door?"

Sten doesn't look surprised. In fact, he looks relieved? No, not that. He has just the right word. Ah, right. Amused. He looks amused. Since when can a Qunari seem amused? Last time he checked, they lacked a proper sense of humor. "Your hound."

She covers her mouth, bites her lips, trembles in her place and then hastens them towards the gigantic doors with none being wise enough to detain them. Only then does she take off the ugly helm. A snicker, a giggle, it grows and grows until it seems ready to burst and then it does so. Loud chuckles, a pure sound of happiness – _or freedom_. It might be hysteria, the way she's laughing, the way she hugs the large Mabari which keeps hogging her for attention she doesn't seem ready to give – _it probably is, considering the way she rambled._. It might even be his ridiculous attempt at bluffing though it obviously wasn't that bad, she was just an unwilling target. _He feels better with that thought_.

"And it's just _sad_ indeed when a Mabari's smarter than both of you," she whispers between the dog's fur, all between hiccups. "Ah, my brave warrior. What would I do without you?"

He should have killed her.


	23. payback.

023\. _payback_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Anora had been expecting this.

Grey Wardens are strong. Grey Wardens know how to fight and how to flee and this one, this one she knew would manage. After all, she has escaped time and time again from his father. In Anora's mind, childish concept or not, her father is the strongest warrior she knows. But her father appreciates subtlety, even when it's against him. This elf – _dark haired, dark eyed, dark stained, dangerous_ – clearly does not. The first thing the human notices upon her stormy entrance is the two unsheathed blades on her hands – _and Eamon who is saying something unheard in the background, who does not dare to come forth._

"Why should I spare you?"

The words are almost spat out, disgusting and painful.

"I am your Queen."

"Why would that matter to me?" The elf forces a smile, as bitter and dry as an act can be. "My people are the ones you keep inside a cage and use for your own purposes. That kind of royalty means nothing to me. I ask again. Why should I spare you?"

Swords, two blades neatly cleaned and chipped with use. "I am a woman," Anora declares. A noble, one who has never used a sword.

"So am I."

"You know what…"

A careless shrug and her swords still move. "I don't and I don't care." One of them is old, made of Veridium and with the strangest green tinge to it. The other is dragonbone, pure dragonbone and sharp and deadly like a dragon's claws. It finally occurs to Anora that she shouldn't have played with this Warden. Alistair would have been a safer bet. Even after trapped he would have never thought about harming a woman, especially one who ruled this country. He had been raised _better_ than that. This elf cares little for life or propriety and, this time, Anora played with fire.

"I will not ask again," the elf continues, raising the green blade just a little bit closer, a little bit too close. "Why should I spare you, why should I when you clearly had no intention to?"

A Queen does not lower herself. A Queen does not beg. A Queen is above in both dignity and finesse and she never explains her actions. That is her right.

"I do not know." Anora tilts her chin slightly upwards and her neck is so vulnerable, so pale in its unspoken challenge. This is an elf, below her and below everyone in this room – _stupid men, staring, staring at the both of them instead of interfering._ She will not back down.

The elf's blades do. The green one remains on her hand but the other is carefully placed on her back. _A bluff_? It was a bluff?

"You do know but you lack the courage to speak it." There is no trace of a smile on the woman's face, not even a fake one. "I don't kill you because I am not you. I will never be you. I will kill myself before I become something like you. If to avoid becoming a monster, I must not kill one then I will not."

Whispers, someone keeps whispering but Anora can only breathe because she's alive, she won't die and the elf's words echo in her mind as even the last blade is put away. It takes little time for the other to turn away and filter her way through the small mob littering the entrance but Anora cares not. She is leaving. Thank the Maker, she is leaving.

"Your highness. A question, if you will." The elf stops exactly in the threshold and seems almost honestly _curious_ for whatever reason. "Why should I spare your father?"

With those words, the Warden leaves.

Anora's heart shatters.


	24. apostle.

024\. _apostle_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

City elves have legends. Most people don't know this, most humans laugh about the sheer idea and even elves forget to correct them. Some do know. They float in the back of their minds guiding their footsteps, whispering beneath their actions. It is the same type of stories he has told his daughter when she was being stubborn – _refused to fall asleep, refused to eat, refused to follow or marry, refused to be refused_. The Maker watches your steps, the Sky guards your secrets, the Creators protect you, Ancestors guide you.

These are stories and he is an old man. He didn't believe them when younger and now, staring at metal bars, he can't summon the will to do otherwise.

That is the problem with their legends, he tells to himself while his fingers caress the cold steel. Somewhere along the line, their legends became less of a belief and more of a myth. Myths cannot give one hope. It is why he doesn't pray _– in the Chantry, in the house, anywhere_ – and why he sits alone and in silence. Staring at metal bars is all he can do not to yell, scream against some divinity which allowed these things to happen. Uselessly because he doesn't believe. No one will save them, no one will come for them, in that he can believe.

Turns out, Cyrion believes correctly. It is not a dream that comes. It is a nightmare which smashes through the doors without warning.

They move like vultures, the newcomers. Confusing and messy, blades scattering blood and flesh alike, as if they don't care that their opponents breathe and move, nothing more than animals. Which they are but animals who talk. Animals that move and cry out in pain. The group doesn't care, he sees, about life, about suffering, they murder the Tevinters without pity, their voices like howls in the closed space. And this must be an illusion, Cyrion thinks over the madness. Nothing other than an illusion can be this crude, this unreal or amazing at the same time.

The elf should push himself back but finds himself leaning forward, fingers tight against the metal bars, smiling an icy smile that he never uses just because these people made him suffer, his own harmed, hurt and dragged around like cattle. And if he's going to die – _one slaver, another, he cares not_ – then at least he'll die with the satisfaction that these things will die before him.

Coldly, bluntly and without mercy.

Like animals.

"Wait. Wait."

 _No. Don't wait_. Cyrion says nothing but thinks it fervently, wills the Leader to hear his words even though no sound leaves his lips. _Kill him like you killed the others_.

The Leader waits. Caladrius speaks. Cyrion watches.

"So…do we have a deal? Even you must admit it's much better than resorting to barbarism, yes?"

What does he call sell people like animals? Is this civilized? Proper? Correct? Shems. Always the same thing, always thinking themselves above, more proper, stronger, owner of everyone else. The sheer arrogance of it is worse than the previous bloodshed. Use him, use their blood, the Magister suggests. Maker, how can this be allowed? How can someone have the power over their lives like this? Their Chantry says it is wrong but this man says it is acceptable, as long as the target are those who have no defense possible.

 _And this is why he doesn't pray_.

The Leader remains silent for a short time, apparently staring – considering – the proposal. That's what Cyrion thinks, his nerves on edge until it shakes its head just barely and he can almost _swear_ the warrior chuckles under that silver helm. Which is completely awkward. Warriors do not laugh when in a discussion like this and definitely not after drowning themselves under an entire battalion's blood.

"I have a counter-offer," it says. Cyrion's blood freezes, his heart stops, his mouth opens and remains open.

"Keep going."

A light shrug. So many times he has tried to make her stop that foolish habit. Use words, girl. Use words and say what you mean instead of shrugging and letting everything remain unsaid. Say you don't want to get married, argue with everyone, remind him of the old days and what happened outside when they were father and daughter and he was not inside a cage. Oh, this is an illusion, this is nothing more than an illusion, he realizes, because his daughter is dead, his wife is dead and he has little else. This cannot be his daughter, metal covered, sharp weapons and sweet tongue, but he finds himself _praying_ that it is.

"My offer is this," the Leader begins, her helm shaking from side to side. Her hair is longer; it hides things better peeking underneath that silver cover. She is pale but the slaver is so much more. Trembling, he trembles just as everyone else, fears like the ones he sold. Do not underestimate elves, Cyrion wants to say but doesn't. He smiles again because they never fear, never think they'll remember and take revenge. "I'm going to kill you."

Coldly, bluntly, quickly, this woman he doesn't know.

Before he can realize what is going on the cage is being opened and the unknown warrior wears his daughter's face. There are tears and armored arms around him while her head hides against his shirt – _warm and sharp and wet, so red as her voice mutters his name_ father _again and again_.

"I'm here, my girl." Because it _is_ his daughter and that is all he can say because the rest doesn't make sense, sort of a windwhirl in both mind and heart. Or he's just afraid he's going to breakdown like the girl in his arms.

He doesn't pray. He never prays. Not in the Chantry, not at home, not anywhere, not to the Maker, not to Andraste, not to the Creators or the stars in the sky. Now that he did and it was answered with his daughter in his arms, he cannot find the will to thank anyone. Instead, he holds her fast – _she was two and hungry, she was five and scared, she was thirteen and harmed, she was eighteen and leaving_ – and believes in a happy ending.

"Are they staring?"

Cyrion looks over her shoulder, hiding what's probably embarrassment from countless faces he doesn't know – _the group who just saved them_ – and those he does. "Yes."

There's a movement in his arms, as if Tasha knows she should get up, move away, do whatever great heroes and warriors do after a battle but it leads to nothing. She refuses to move and he refuses to let go.

"I can kill them later," she states simply.

None wonders if she was joking and Cyrion, he just focuses on his miracle.

 


	25. promised land.

25\. _promised land_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

There is a grand total of five seconds allowed to admire the giant tree in the middle of the square before Teagan feels his arm being grabbed and then used as lever to physically haul him into a house. The grip is ridiculously small, the voice is unknown -  _What are you doing here? -_  but female and that knowledge is used to, stupidly, stop any violent reaction to a possible dangerous situation.

"You idiotic buffoon!" A couple of shelves, a wooden desk, boxes of unknown contents behind a counter and an elven man who simply stands there. Looking.  _Staring_ _at the intruders_. Not the most welcoming stare he has ever received. It does pale in comparison to the outright glare his attacker is giving him.

"What did you think you are doing here?" This is new. "You are a  _human_. A human  _noble_. The riots started because of a human noble. Do you think anyone here wants to see someone like you around? You're lucky someone didn't stab you in the back as soon as you entered the Alienage!" Yes,  _definitely_  new.

The woman is still glaring – managing to seem quite haughty while barely reaching his chin – her words coming out fast and clear, scolding while managing to insult him, his ancestry, his birthplace and his unborn children in quick succession. If she wasn't still hissing in his face, he might have laughed. As she is and they are in an unknown location where the existence of blades is entirely possible, he takes the intelligent route and keeps his mouth firmly shut, waiting for the moment when she'll stop to regain her breath.

"You aren't even listening to me." Listening, he is. He is just too incredulous to do more than looking at all five yelling feet of her. "He isn't even listening to me. Maker, I am ignoring her oddities next time. Alarith?"

Her rant is cut short as the woman turns around, her simple dress moving sharply on her wake, gluing itself to ribs, shoulders and legs. She's a little thing, red-headed, short hair, pretty eyes, frail looking as most elves. A comment definitely not be done out loud, not while she's still moving in closed angles and sharp gestures.

"I can wait outside if you want. There are daggers on the back." Not amusing. The shopkeeper – because it is a store and he is  _that_  particular shopkeeper and she is just  _someone somewhat odd_  – needs to refine his sense of humor. Or perhaps, Teagan realizes, he should try not to seem as serious when speaking such things. One might believe them.

Smiling, he's sure she's smiling. "If I hurt any other noble, they might just throw me in the dungeons and destroy the key. Not today." They speak easily, with the abandon of family or friends who spent their time together as children. She leans closer the counter, her elbows on the harsh wood, he tilts his head to the side, nodding to her words, replying in hushed tones to whatever she's whispering. There's confidence and trust – Elves look after themselves, protect each other, help each other, hate humans on a whole, hate him by association. By their actions, Teagan feels aside, isolated as he has seldom felt.

A bundle of clothing is pushed against his arms without warning. Or without any warning he might have paid attention to. "Dress quickly, I'm waiting outside." Rags. Why is he…? "No one uses clothing that fine in the Alienage. It calls too much attention. In the dark, best to blend in. Just do what I ask." Except she's not really asking. It's a sort of forceful suggestion which is more of an order than anything else. "I'm waiting outside. Be quick, Alarith doesn't want you around."

She doesn't sound apologetic with the last sentence, implying she agrees with just the correct undertones. It's fine, she shouldn't be. He is human, they are elves. It's almost a given he shouldn't expect a nice welcome.

Still, he slips into the harsh clothing as soon as she leaves. It is tight, doesn't fit right and he feels like he's trying a much younger brother's apparel instead of his own. Fitting in, the woman had said. Teagan allows himself a brief moment of incredulity, noticing the –  _extremely –_ short pants and smaller shirt. Anyone who looks at him with surely think of him as a heavily retarded human instead of an elf.

_It is better than being stabbed in the dark though_ _._

"There you are." The tall tree presides over the square, strong and beautiful, hovering over them both as the night sweeps around. She waits for him by the roots, tapping her foot absently, her hands against her waist. His mother would have done this years before, ages ago. What sort of mad elf is he pitted against? "Up. Start climbing." A truly mad one. "I am not kidding," she continues, pointing at the branches above. "Start climbing. Just don't take too long, I promised Alarith you'd be out by morning." Which means he should hide in the tree until dawn? "Oh by Andraste's sake, you didn't come here because of  _me_ , did you? You came because of  _her_ , her giant told me you might. Start climbing!"

It makes no sense until it sort of does. The Warden likes heights. He has seen her sitting closer to the cliff enough to fall if she turns too fast, too close to the edge. She likes nature too, the sort of enjoyment he'd expect from any Dalish and not from someone born and bred between city walls. It is this knowledge that makes the noble walk closer, look farther and up to where the tree towers over the roofs.

"And remember. Out by morning! Tasha, visitor!"

The redhead beats her fist against the trunk once, twice, thrice and waits. Waits until a small shadow above moves and looks down, meets his eyes and blinks in silence. Simple clothing, simple hairstyle, nestled and protected by the taller branches, looking down at him with eyes that are suddenly younger. She looks younger, he realizes quickly, smaller even, looks like the woman who brought him here. And he's already climbing – slowly, these elves have the oddest habits – and by her side, trying to keep himself from falling and wondering if the other woman's plan was exactly that.

"You do know you look absolutely bizarre dressed like that?" Tasha even sounds like the other woman now. "Then again, we should be grateful. She could have given you a dress." Or stabbed him, there is always that. "You're sitting all wrong."

The Warden moves naturally –  _normally_  – even though they are sitting on a tree in the middle of a destroyed area in which most would kill him on sight. She guides him quietly, her skin on his hands, against his arm as she chooses a place for him to take, one leg to one side of the branch, the other caught in two others, preventing a fall and this is normal. There's her solid presence by his side, warm torso against his just barely and only the tiniest strand of her hair touching his neck as she makes sure he's not falling anytime soon. "There. Safe. Relax, this is a place to rest."

Teagan wants to relax; his body just refuses to forget two details.  _Height and touch_. He tries to relax but limbs move, complain, make him more aware. To climb was a mistake. He doesn't like heights, never did.

"Relax," she says again. And she makes it seem easy when she sits, back against the tree and a foot on the thick branch. It could break. They could fall and get harmed. She trusts the tree, however, and he tries to trust her yet again. "We all do this since children, it never broke. Not once. Vhenadahl never breaks."

They slip into silence. This day –  _night_  – Teagan has no questions to be made. He does not speak, keeps quiet, waits. He uses her breathing to steady himself –  _control the fear each time the branch trembles beneath his weight_  – and counts the time. Waits.  _Wait_. This night he is not there for himself and cannot force her to speak, it is hardly fair or any of his business.

"I'm surprised you haven't asked anything yet." Leaning forward with her head against a knee, carefully hugged by both arms, Tasha sits in a way that makes him want to grab her arm and pull her against him. She even swings lightly in the same place. "But no. You wouldn't. You wait. You are patient." And he is not there to ask anything. He is there to allow her to speak.

 _Back and forth, back and forth she moves._ "If I asked, you would lie. So I have no reason to ask anything. Would you please remain still?"

A faint smile is half-hidden in her dress and the disappearing light. "Trust it, it doesn't break." It swings and trembles, balance is hardly kept, he could say.  _Back and forth, forth and back_. "There is nothing to say. I wasn't harmed. I left. The Alienage is free. I'm safe."

Grey Wardens lie by omission. She is not done and he waits.

"I just wanted to come home."

He hadn't been in the Palace after the rescue mission. Teagan had seen the group leaving and had struggled not to leave with them. Because he is the Bann. Because he is Eamon's brother and someone who carries a target on his back almost as large as the Arl's. It doesn't matter to him – it's a reality of war, after all – but it matters to Eamon. Teagan is his heir now, after all, he should be careful, Redcliffe depends on him. And he goes on and on forgetting that Isolde is still in the Castle, young and full of life and that his brother has no wish for more power than what he holds. There will be another child to inherit the Arling. But he allowed himself to be convinced –  _this time_. When he had returned, the party had already come and gone from the Alienage and she was gone without warning or request.

A fugitive always turns to home. She would not avoid the Alienage, she would avoid the place which seemed too much like the prison she had been thrown into. But she's not home, she's  _outside_ , alone. If there's a logic somewhere in there, he's not following.

"Soris was being difficult." Suddenly, he needs no more information.

There is a story Teagan doesn't know which lies in the Alienage. There are whispers of a marriage which never happened, there is blood on the streets, between elves and humans, between this woman and the other and the male too. There is a ton of things he doesn't know nor understands, even more that he cannot ask because she would just lie, omit, reply as if he's a fool and imagining something. But one thing the Bann has learned early in life. Home is not a place. It can be a shack, two sticks and a straw cover, a cavern by the sea or a hole in the middle of wilds. Home is  _people_ and, right now, she needs home.

On an impulse, he grips her wrist, a larger hand closing around her skin, – nearly toppling them both from their perch when he startles her. No more swinging, he wants to say, no more hesitation, no more questions. He already had his answers anyway. "Stay. Relax," he whispers carefully into her ear, keeping his fingers tightened on her arm – small, small arm, marred and black. "You are safe."

Tasha doesn't look at him – because she is not swinging anymore, she is close, silent, an animal ready to flee if he says something wrong. And her gaze is even stranger, locked with the branch beneath them or the fabric of his ridiculous outfit. It is confused, wrinkled in the deepest frown he has seen in her.

"Repeat it." Exposed form, wounded body, her confidence has been chipped in the past days. He doesn't need to ask anything else, he already understands. A Grey Warden is not a person, it cannot suffer. This is why she searched for her house, where she's not a Warden but only herself. This is why she came home. To lick wounds that cannot be shown and heal.

Carefully, Teagan shifts in the trunk –  _Vhenadahl is the tree of the people and the elves do not break so it will not either_  – and releases her arm in order to slip his around her shoulders. Thin shoulders, thin frame, tonight she is just a little vulnerable. Just tonight and just in that place.

"Relax. Breathe. You are safe." His arm tightens, trust floats around them, in her, in him, in the tree which shelters them and in the unknown figure keeping watch by the store's door. "Relax. Breathe. You are safe."  _We are safe here_ , he thinks –  _believes_  – repeating those five words over and over throughout the night.

And during that time, Teagan swears Vhenadahl feels almost like a home.

 


	26. wink.

26\. _wink_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

The stage still resists. Even after the riots, even after all the death and sorrow, it remains in the square, a witness to everything which has passed. Tasha was presented to the community in this very stage, she whispers to herself. She learned her first dance steps, her first moves with a wooden sword, her first dance with Alarith, her first public argument with Soris. This stage is a part of her people's history and a part of her own as well.

"I almost married here."

"Almost?" His voice pulls her out of her reflections without effort. Teagan is able to that, push into another's mind without truly forcing himself to. Maybe it's his voice, his presence. Maybe it's just something that was taught to him while growing until it became natural. Whatever it is, it makes her stare at the older man, who looks at everything with a keen eye and mind. Tasha has no idea what he's thinking – though she'd hazard a guess it might have to do with the tight clothes which Shianni has thrown him into. It was obviously Shianni. Just because her cousin likes a human –  _she obviously does not hate him_  – it doesn't mean she has to.

"If you don't want to speak about it," he continues calmly, as if it doesn't matter. Again, it ripples through her and snaps her to reality.

The Alienage does this. Makes her into the woman she had once been and not the Warden. A shame because that woman, that girl, is much more prone to blunt replies and sharp actions in order to avoid a subject. This is Teagan though, always hearing her without asking for nothing else bar a kind word. Her mind thinks twice before replying.

"Almost." Her foot taps against the wooden floor, once, twice, thrice, a small rhythm they had played in the past. "It was interrupted." Or destroyed? Definitely destroyed. She shouldn't downsize what it happened but if she doesn't, he'll take the other's faults, he'll try to assume the guilt. This is the kind of person Teagan is. "It was an arranged marriage," her voice keeps going, running ahead without worries, her body moves to take the place she did on that day. To the end of the stage and to the side, the bride and groom, her father right in front of her. It was also an early morning like this day, amazingly enough. They had drunk on the night before, danced until the moon was high in the sky and they ended up falling asleep somewhere between the door to the house and the table.

"I was right here."  _The sun was already high, it hit her eyes._  "Nelaros was to the side. Then Soris and Valora. Shianni was there. The mother was in front. Bridesmaids to the side." Wynne is wrong. Between then and now, her memories have dulled, became less hurtful and sharp. She faced the Arl's Palace, how can her own home harm her after that? Shianni faces this, every day, every moment and her example is nothing less than what she needs. A shake of her head and any odd feelings are buried in favor of her elder. "Valendrian was speaking," Tasha whispers, smiling because here, this is the place where she is freer. "Friends and family, today we celebrate not only this joining but also our bonds of blood and kin."

And she is moving forward just barely, opening her arms as she remembers her Hahren doing, mimicking his footsteps, hearing his calm voice washing over her body. Soothing. Valendrian was like the tree of the Alienage. Strong and soothing and protective, proud and everlasting.  _She misses him so much._

"We are now free." Memories play with her mind and she's not sure the words are correct. This is the right feeling though. "But that was not always so. Andraste, the Maker's Prophet, freed us from the bonds of slavery. As our community grows, remember where our strength lies."

The human moves to her side and he has this odd smile in his face, trying to see through her eyes, she cannot be sure. "You are standing on the wrong place. The bride is to the back, you said." There is a moment of confusion before Teagan touches her wrist again, very lightly, pulling her along without seeming to do so. She finds herself in the same place as that day. Nelaros to her side, Valora to the other, Soris wishing her good luck while his eyes mirrored resignation.

 _In the name of the Maker, who brought us this world, and in whose name we say the Chant of Light, I "_ Welcome you in this joyous day." And that part she never heard, Vaughan appeared before they could rejoice, surprise, hurt and destruction, that's all she remembers. Teagan, however, does not. And his words are steady on her ears, soothing like Valendrian's own.

"All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings." Is that a  _wink_? The action is so ridiculous, so at odds with the words which leave her lips that Tasha has to keep cover her mouth, a snicker turned into coughing halfway. "Say only the words, repeat only the Chant. And thus Eileen spoke to the masses; My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours. For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one. And when we walk from this place, two can become one."

The Alienage wakes early. Very early. And the impromptu show gathers audience ever so quickly. She can see Shianni already standing next to the tree, wary eyes trained on the man. No one forgets, they both remember. They were always similar.

"Thank you for your presence, Revered Mother," she interrupts him before it turns too serious, their play ends and Shianni is harmed. "You look quite fetching this fine morning. Is your hair different? Clothes perhaps? Gender?" A look is her only reply, _be silent, let me speak, let me change things_. Change things? Change what and for whom? This is a game, she realizes, he's playing something and will not let her know until it's too late to stop him.

Another wink, embarrassed –  _the clothes_  – and sweet –  _his own values_. "That is not what you should say. The words are… hm, you are standing wrong again." He pulls her back to her place, long fingers around her wrist. His voice sounds soothing in her ears, almost like a lullaby or a prayer. "In the Maker's name, in her name, she who has died for our sins, as they are one, so will we." Tasha almost feels like closing her eyes, leaning just slightly, _rest_. "Through health and sickness, through hardship and happiness, in the fire of our hearts and home, in the life that we share, in the Fade and beyond where they wait."

Some laugh, confused about everything which takes place. Some begin to complain. But Teagan –  _ridiculous, strange, crazy crazy man that he is_  – nods ever so lightly to his assembly –  _her_  – and ignores everyone else. She does not notice this small action. She does not even see Shianni attempt of a smile, the memories being displaced by this new one or her father's gaze, heavy on her shoulders. Instead, there's this childish frown in her expression, like a little girl facing a puzzle lacking several pieces. The play was well done, words and intent all perfect. But all that time, all while he spoke and joked around, he spoke the wrong words for the wrong place, never once standing in the Revered Mother's place. It doesn't make sense and she cannot understand. So she just stares at him, his eyes, his gestures and allows herself to take this scene in. Nothing else is important.

"My lady. Perhaps we should go now." The Alienage is waking up with the bright sun, messy and unwelcoming. Yes, she agrees looking at the human features he carries – _and elven ones he does not possess_. The conversation has ended, the play is over, reality stands right by their side –  _more or less where the Mother is supposed to stand_  – and they must leave. Tegan says nothing else, merely touches her wrist in that way he has been testing since the night before and motions to the Gates watching them. Side by side.

 _Side by side_. Not in front of her but by her side. Two people notice this, see the puzzle and grasp the missing piece.

Neither stands in the stage.

 


	27. triangle.

27\. _triangle_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

"Why are they just _staring_ at each other?"

Wynne shakes her head silently but, otherwise, does not respond to the former Templar. She could have. With a little effort, she could explain what is happening in simple terms, something that he would understand. But that is just it, nothing here is simple and any attempt would destroy the importance of this moment. The two women stare at each other, cautiously, measuring each other as if they'll start fighting just a moment after - _entirely possible_. The older mage has no idea of what they're thinking but _somehow_ she is aware they're off in their own world.

It is not up to her to intervene, even if she wished it. And it's hardly needed, as the Commander takes her large sword, placing it by her side, huge and threatening.

"You got out."

Tasha shrugs, lightly while her hands tense around her blades. "I told you I would."

"I wasn't there," Cauthrien continues. "I'm here now."

Another shrug, dearest Maker. It worsens the atmosphere, transforms it, fills it with so much tension that Wynne almost feels difficulty in breathing. This will end in battle, it cannot end in any other way but battle. The one that wasn't finished in the Arl's Palace nor done in Fort Drakon.

"You don't want to stop me."

"Why?" The Commander hesitates for but a second. Wynne hesitates with her. Sometimes, just sometimes Tasha makes little sense to no sense. Presumes too much, the silly girl. "Because you're stronger? Because you're right? Because you'll kill me?"

"Because of all those. And because I can do what you can't."

"That is?"

"I can stop him."

"No one can."

"I can."

Silence, they all fall in silence. Wynne finds that she cannot help but believe in the Warden. Ostagar and Brecilian forest, the Dead Trenches where the Broodmother awaited, Redcliffe where dead walked, the Tower, the lakes, miles and miles of dry earth. She believes Loghain can be defeated. So does Cauthrien, for that matter.

"I can," the Warden repeats rather uselessly. "For a price."

More silence, the whispers of the Landsmeet barely making a dent.

"Leave him. Betray him. Walk away."

It would be easier to ask for the sun and yet, Tasha asks it. Foolish girl. This is the Commander, his second, the one who was at Ostagar and still stays. Someone who has seen Howe's treachery and said nothing. This is foolishness.

"You will stop him?"

Behind her, Wynne can swear Zevran is appreciating the verbal duel. This hardly happens. At this point, blades and swords would be involved and any words would involve pain and insults. He seems to enjoy it though, moving from side to side like a captive audience. Another kind of violence. Wynne focuses on him. The conversation seems to flow in a direction she does not wish.

"Yes." Simple, simple reply.

"You will kill him?"

"I don't know."

 _Wrong_. Terribly wrong answer. At this point, Tasha should know better. Or _even better_ , the elf should ask her. Wynne can tell her everything, all the crimes, all the wrongdoings, all the things that keep her awake at night while her Tower burns in her thoughts and children die in her dreams. All because of this man. He deserves death, just as all murderers do, like her children cried out during the nights that they spent closed in that smallest space while only her magic kept danger out. He deserves to die.

Cauthrien has no right to ask for this.

"Do you know mercy, elf?"

 _Hesitation_ and Tasha's words are like a lesson long forgotten."She wields the broken sword and separates true kings from tyrants."

"But you are neither."

"No, I am not."

That sentence sticks in Wynne's mind. It's not unnatural. After all, her memory is quite fine for her age, quite flexible. It sticks and turns, moves around, sounds exactly the younger woman – _the mage, the qunari, the bard, the other mage_. Yes. The trip to the mountain taught her a great deal of things. The trip to the south taught her more.

Tasha nods to her fellow Warden and both walk through the great doors, leaving the other woman behind. Confident. She is probably confident that the other's honor will be strong enough to spare the one she follows. That is not acceptable. Not now, not ever. It is not _fair_ and her children lay dead.

"Her sword is not broken," she speaks for the first time, like a cold blade through skin, loud and clear before walking away.

Zevran looks curious as they walk towards the doors and keep to the back. The mage can see his confusion but really, why bother to address it? There are more important details. Like Loghain who is already speaking and Tasha, that one simply states why she's there, all facts and none of her usual emotional outbursts. Maker bless her with small miracles.

"My dear, have you just baited the Commander?"

Wynne is the wise one. Wynne never raises her voice. Wynne hates just as everyone does, dislikes the Chantry but says nothing, does not agree with Alistair as king but understands, is a mage and hates her shackles but accepts.

 _And yet,_ "I am an instructor." _Who has been in battle, who has been in Ostagar, who has lost friends to betrayal._ "I was merely instructing her."


	28. honesty.

28\. _honesty_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

_The past days sound like a bad romance novel, the kind Shianni would read her while she trained, dreaming about faraway adventures some unlucky bastard had and_ thank the Maker _, they wouldn't. The irony of the situation cannot escape her. So Tasha simply tries not to think overly much. –_ kidnapped, injured, chased, threatened, conscripted, forced through half the country, forced out of a war camp and fed blood. What happened, what is about to happen, dear Maker, a war, what will happen in the future, what is happening now _– Instead, there's a moment to breathe and ask but Duncan is a Commander, Duncan does whatever needs to be done and drags her along for the ride._

 _One amazing ride it is, the war council. On one side, this is the sort of people Tasha has sworn to hate from her early years. Only there must be something wrong with her –_ shock, confusion, loss, Maker knows what more _– because her hate isn't making an appearance nearly as easily as usual._ Dear Andraste and all her host this is the King _and half her mind is divided between_ is that the Teyrn _and a girlish side of her which doesn't come out often_ and real live mages, Maker help me. _It doesn't come out often enough and it suddenly sits on her shoulder, grinning like a fool and forgetting these are all humans._ She'll feel ridiculous later on.

_They speak easily, arguments flowing back and forth and her understanding only goes so far. Tasha finds herself looking from one to another in silence as if following a bunch of children playing. They are not children, however, and what she had once played with sticks and stones, they play with an entire kingdom and countless lives. The cheer arrogance of it all makes her disgust bristle and remind herself to be an audience. Which is good, she realizes, to be audience. Audience doesn't have to make the kind of decisions who might kill countless others. She just hears, feels a little – very tiny – sliver of respect towards the Teyrn as she hears his arguments – sensible, an older man who has seen enough to not destroy something in a useless movement. Cailan sounds like a petulant boy playing with wooden horses._

_After the whole conversation and banter, the elf is called to play only to discover they want her to hold a torch and light wood on fire. The honor cannot be described in words. Only in loud laughter once she's out of their ear shot._

That was the first time Tasha saw the General – not the Teyrn but the cold blooded General of River Dane. Its image overtakes the Landsmeet bringing Ostagar back to the surface, making her care little about measuring eyes and calculating looks. Even less about any kind of reproach. This is a whole new setting for her and a whole new type of battle. She is a beginner, facing a Master in both arms and words. And even now that he has lost and Alistair will be King, he still tries, still plunges forward with all his strength as if there is still hope somewhere. Maker knows her flesh is going to let her know this in the morning.

It didn't pass through her mind to allow anyone else to battle Loghain. This was their battle, as self-appointed leaders. It should have.

"Right. Right. No, no, turn to the left." The general aims at her arms, aims at her heels because those are the points in which any fighting style is based. He is too good. But all Tasha can think in between blows, is to stop this whole thing, ridiculous as that would be, and yell at Alistair to shut it because Loghain is just too good and she doesn't want to die before her thirty years are up.

He uses every weak point of hers and pushes, pushes so hard that she feels like falling behind at every moment while both arms split apart at the seams. Slower, she can be much faster but the General compensates it in strength. She can feel exactly when he lands a hit because her armor isn't that good and it's now ruined, a gaping metal wound overflowing with blood. He is pure steel and stone, a warrior of years and she is just a girl. The last time she felt this small, she was also facing a human. Humans are the greatest monsters, larger than any, more horrifying than any mindless beast.

Tasha finds herself wanting to kill this bastard merely because he could cooperate and make her life easier but, stubbornly, refuses to do so. Stop this because they are on the same side and he is being ridiculous. _Slide and parry, strike and dodge_. Just marry Anora to Alistair, Maker damn him. Is it that hard to come up with that stupid idea? Alistair might kill her if she comes up with it, hence, he should do it. _Bastard_.

And more than that, she finds herself hating the fact that she cannot hate his actions completely, that his lies harmed her and her people but that he fought for his own calling and Maker knows he was ruthless enough to forget the means on his way. She cannot hate completely because a little part of her believes she could do the same if forced – _Cyrion, Shianni, Soris, Teagan, Alistair and the list goes and on and keeps going_. Frightening as that is, she ignores it, hates him more for making her realize that, hates knowing that she'll harm others whether she wins or not. She just pure and simply hates him. Reasons upon reasons stash themselves on her mind, enough to make her wish to run him through as soon as possible. No one could fault her for doing this. No one except herself who has been trying and trying and trying yet again not to become a monster. Killing someone due to hate would undo her.

 _One reason. Just one reason not to kill him_ but all she can think are reasons why she should _._

Smart, always pushing her into a corner. Tried to get her killed, – _a blade comes too near, his shield hits her arm again and pushes. A loud snap and her left blade falls to the floor, useless metal to a broken arm._ The Queen's father, a traitorous little noble who is certainly no credit to whatever parent which claims to have raised her. Besides, sparing anyone here will make Alistair unhappy.

He is a good general, she concedes with a grimace, and an excellent warrior too. The sword which keeps aiming at her, always too close, always hitting the right places says so ever so easily. She could use someone like this, the Warden in her says. The war isn't the over after all, Blight ravaging both land and lives. And she has saved others' lives before. Sten and Zevran. Jowan. But the elf knows, she never hated them. They did what they did without personal feelings attached, not against her but against what she stood for.

Loghain is _different_ and this case is different. Here there is hate and dishonor, horror and confusion and this feeling which has no name but it is darker and crueler than any darkspawn. The one reason, the truest one which can save his life comes from that side of her, the only which actually makes sense.

It is _fine_ to fear death. It is right to fear the end, a final punishment and then oblivion. But Tasha has been trapped inside stone walls and metal bars and knows different. Death isn't that frightening when it comparison. What he did, everything, all the lives he has taken, those won't return just because she can raise her blade and strike him down. Ending would be easy. It would be quick. It wouldn't be enough.

_Up and down, circle and stab._

She is not kind, none knows it better than herself and her ghosts. Mortal as anyone else, filled with faults disguised beneath kind actions, spiteful, crammed with anger and hatred which no death can erase. And that's fine. That truly is fine. Hate is a part of life, just as kindness, just as caring and selfishness. Most just choose to ignore that, want to ignore it as only a hero can save them. Heroes still their blade when a shield falls, when their opponent is cut, its blade forced to the ground.

_The teyrn bows at her feet, never mind the fact that her remaining blade will fall at any moment. Surrenders, place one's life in her hands. And her hands hold a sword and she is tired and hurt and hardly confused._

"I accept your surrender," Tasha says simply. And she wants to shrug her shoulders, run, laugh out loud as she wins against all odds and any injury is worth this feeling. Instead, she looks down at his kneeling figure and smiles – small and happy. If she were a hero, she would pity him then, kill him. She's not and his life is spared.

 _Not for pity though,_ she wills her eyes to tell him even as the Landsmeet explodes around them, as someone takes her sword away, helps her sit, tries to call for a healer. Nothing of this is important, only her message is. _I just hate you_.

Loghain never looks away, gaze for gaze.

_He hates her too._


	29. plead.

29\. _plead._

**xxxXXXxxx**

Salt and blood. The room reeks of both, fills the atmosphere with acid undertones and the space where fear hasn't become physical. It is so pungent that Anora has to wrinkle her nose in disgust, swearing silently to herself to burn the beautiful dress she had chosen for the day as soon as this comedy ends. Ceremonies, the older Warden had called it. Ceremony, as if this was anything interesting, anything important. Cailan might have thought this to be important but his wife knows better. This is just a play, a comedy, a little stage to amuse and deceive those who are foolish enough –  _unlucky_   _enough_  – to join the Wardens.

She cares little about the mage, sweating, gasping in fear. She cares even less about the older Warden or the stony figure by its side. Her eyes are all for her father who awaits outside. Like a  _foreigner_. All she had wanted was her rule back, the one thing that was hers and in which she thrived. Her father had needed a break, time away from all the betrayal, the murders in their society, even from the Blight. Let the Wardens handle it. Didn't they claim to be only who could finish it? Let them fight and let them die as they should. But parents are proud and hers is prouder than any. To listen to her and step back? Maker forbid.

The Wardens already speak as if they are alone and she doesn't matter, as if none will understand this event unless they explain. The female has a hand on the dog's head, the dog leans against her leg and the dark liquid swirls from side to side on the goblet held by the Orlesian.

"I was the one to spare him,” the female asks tonelessly. “Don't I have a say in this? "

She had been almost silent in the Landsmeet, obviously more interested in keeping herself standing and conscious than listening to her superior speak. But of course, she would not let this pass. Of course, she would be like the other fool, wish her father to be murdered because he chose the wrong side. Of course  _but perhaps not completely._

"His life, yes. And I don't presume to know why you took that option." Low blow. That is a low blow. The Orlesian has claws underneath the polish. Who would think that considering he was taken out by  _poison_? For an Orlesian, he sounds incredibly gullible. And yet, he keeps going like a dog with a bone.

"But what else can we both do?” He continues solely to his colleague. “It is needed. He can be sent to Orlais after the Blight is over. You will not have to see him. But more than that, you will need another by your side before this ends." The liquid is black, completely black with the oddest red hint to it. Anora stands on the back of the group, behind the mage, gaze jumping from his back to the goblet, from the wardens to the recruits and always back to the ominous black liquid. She begins to feel something wrong with all of this. Dangerous, brimming with a touch of forbidden. And the Orlesian's words are the worst, the gloomy little bastard.

The elf fidgets in her place, avoiding carefully everyone's eyes. Her arm is still bandaged and her heavy armor was taken somewhere to be repaired, all her father's courtesy. The one she uses now is ridiculously weak. It makes her feel smaller, frailer, fragile even.

Anora cannot believe this sample of a girl beat her father.

"Trust me, Commander. It is the best thing to do."

Again, the rest of the group does not exist. The mage cannot breathe right and the woman doesn't seem to care. The dog doesn't move but the elf doesn't spare him a glance. She doesn't even look at Anora, the stranger in their mist. Instead, her hand loses itself in the Mabari's fur, jaw locked and teeth grinding.

"Yes, elf. Trust  _Orlesians_. They do so nicely by  _Fereldens_." Anora is the queen. _Was_ the queen. She is not meant to be ignored. The other woman almost  _jumps_ in her place as if only then noticing the alien presence and the goblet shakes, trembles, tries to leave the Orlesian's hands as a slippery snake.

The Wardens don't look at each other. The Orlesian smiles, the elf seems stares at her, almost baring her teeth like a wild animal.

"What is she doing here anyway?"

Nicely done. Before, she had been randomly ignored. Now, she is purposely ignored. The question isn't done to her but to the Orlesian, leaving her to prepare a battle for which she doesn’t understand all the facts. The lack of courtesy makes her bristle in her fine dress.   _Low class does not change even when covered in proper fabric_.

"She is his daughter, sister."

"I didn't know that implied the right to witness this. Should I have invited my cousin to mine? She would have loved it," her words hang in a balance, some decision, before she holds out her hands and taking the goblet for herself. "There go the so called Wardens' secrets."

"Sister." The admonishment is carelessly disregarded.

"You lack the ears to be her any sort of family." Enough, Anora thinks, says with sharp movements as she bypasses the mage. "You lack even the authority to be here. What? An Orlesian? In Ferelden's soil, I do not think you carry any right to order us around.” _Dear Maker, Anora. He is trying to save your father_. Her mind knows it but her mouth runs off like she is half her age, a child away from her mother's hand. "And you,” she points a dainty hand at the cold blue eyes staring at her carefully. “You have no right to come here and condemn  _my father_. You are a recruit, a newbie at best, a little girl playing with your better's sword and…"

Anora silences herself, insults veiled but blatant if one knows where to look. She should distract them. Take her father away, she is the Queen – _was the Queen_ \- and she can do this. They are not above her –  _only Alistair is and Alistair wants her father dead, she only has this moment to save him._  She can listen to Loghain's voice from the hall, harsh,  _enough Anora!_   But it matters little. She forgets the basic. 

 _Never be emotionally invested in an argument, Anora_.

The elf makes no comment, this little corner of her lips twisted –  _in_ _amusement or disgust, Anora cannot be sure_  – while the content of the goblet swirls and splashes. Will she drink it? Silence as the elf doesn't attempt to talk. She simply looks at her. The human begins to understand only then that this is just not a ceremony or even close to theater.

"Alistair doesn't want this," and her voice doesn't seem to belong to the elf Anora has faced before. Not even when she spoke in the Landsmeet, not even when she faced the now King or the former queen. It sounds like a warden; cold, emotionless, all duty and no care. "As to me, I'd gladly lock your father into the deepest dark cell in Fort Drakon, throw away the key and forget he exists. They are oddly comfortable, you see?"

A sudden move, the elder Warden –  _Riordan_  – is about to interrupt. Out of nowhere moves the dog, stepping between him and the goblet, between him and its owner and the elf continues.

"But you see, everyone keeps commenting to me about the _honor_ of being a Warden." Cailan did, the husband her father didn't save."Truly? An honor?" Dark amusement, Anora reads on the woman’s voice, an amusement which is so close to despair to be almost indistinguishable. "Wardens live on counted time. We fight at most moments, we don't have breaks, we die in battle and if we don't, we are almost despised. I don't think I'll even have the chance to have a child, I haven’t had a home for more than a year. We both have been chased, tortured, jailed, used. And still, we are expected to keep going nevertheless because we are  _Grey Wardens_.”

The Queen’s words dry on her throat as Tasha turns to her companion.

“Riordan thinks it is an apt punishment,” she nods faintly. “I agree. If he goes to Orlais after this."

Another nod in return, sure and confident. "The mage?" The remaining man sweats and trembles in his place but also nods in confirmation. So he has a backbone? Incredible, Anora thinks for but a moment. A moment only. She doesn't care enough about the mage to spare more than that.

" _Please,_ Commander _."_   _Maker_ , she pleads keeping her attention on the elf, drawing it towards her before the woman’s practicality takes it away.  _Maker, save him_ , _don't do this to him, let him go_. "You also have a father."

The elf freezes suddenly. As she turns her head back –  _trembling_  – her eyes are colder and even the liquid seem more dangerous. Tactical mistake, Anora realizes.

"Yes. And," Tasha continues, very slowly. "He taught me to always pay my debts. You take, you return, you're gifted, you gift in return. That is the way he told me the world should work. Do you know what happened to him, Lady Anora?"

Anora doesn't want to know.

"Almost sold as a slave. Howe's doing, Loghain's doing."

Her rhetorical skills leave her.  _Please_  is all she can say and all she hopes it will work. But the question the elf once did to her –  _why should I_  – comes to mind and the reply is just in front of her, in the goblet, dark and poisonous.

Funny, she thinks, so funny. It occurs to her, staring at the other female, that they are not so different. If her ears were pointer, if her eyes were darker, if her hands were blood stained, they would be the same. Just the same. And one day, she might just come after this woman, just like she came after her father, Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. They are the same and the Queen would be right there, with the goblet on her hands if the situation was reversed.

Tasha lowers her head without a word and leaves to, perhaps, kill her father.

Anora mimics her, the answer in the mirror, but doesn't move to stop her.

"Is it that bad?" She asks instead.

Riordan does not answer.

 


	30. lowlands.

030\. _lowlands_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

The scent in this room is disgusting. The taste is worse. It tastes like salt and death, poison and bitterness. It feels like salt crammed in his fur and he doesn't like it.

"I was the one to spare him. Don't I have a say in this?" Salt, it threatens to spill over, he feels. Her sadness, his sadness, it's the same thing. His elf might look like etched in snow and ice but snow and ice melt and spill over just like anything else. It is why he is there when no one else is. _Mabari cannot cry_.

"His life, yes. And I don't presume to know why you took that option." Hey, not nice! That was harmful. So would be a bite right about now. Assan takes a look at his elf's face. Just a little bite? Small nip?

Hand tap on his head. Warning.  _How does she do that?_ He doesn't like it.

"What else can we both do?" Many things. She has good claws, his elf. She beat him once too –  _and that's thought with pride_  – she can do it again. Twice. Thrice and until he's dead and not dangerous. Once more to make sure. "It is needed. He can be sent to Orlais after the Blight is over. You will not have to see him. But more than that, you will need another by your side before this ends."

Yes. Well, maybe they should both notice the idiot's watching as they talk and the enemy's outside. Smart.

"Trust me."

That sounds funny. Stupid and funny. Trusting humans is like trusting a snake, it changes, it moves, it bites the hand that feeds it. See the knight? _King? Bastard?_  Not so sure anymore. Assan thought he could protect her once. Now, he doesn't. He dislikes humans just as the elf, he stares at the woman in concern, pulls against her, glares at the idiot and the elder at random intervals. One thing he has learned with all of this. The elf taught him. _Don't trust humans_.

The conversation shifts into an argument which he doesn't bother to get. Idiot is talking and usually, he tunes her out. Spares his mind, spares his patience and his elf is more than strong enough to deal with her. He only moves when blood feels the air again, when the elf leaves and he follows. The blood is familiar. Its scent is familiar. Assan finds himself watching, curious eye, slow and confused as it is given to the enemy. Poison. Is she poisoning him?  _Yes? Yes._

The enemy falls.

It breathes, it pales, it doesn't die and his elf's teeth grind against each other as if she's biting an enemy. This is bad. He doesn't understand why it's bad but it just is, like the scent of blood or the links being formed.

"He will live, sister." The scent. Bitter like poison. She bites harder.

Assan remembers when  _her_  scent changed. He was sick, she was weak and he remembers watching her walk away while storing her scent away. He would follow her. She had saved him and she was his. He could save her too. But when he had met her again –  _older, stronger, lost and found_  – she smelt differently. It's the cup. The cup and blood, the mage's scent changing from bland to bitter in a shower of pain. Yes. The blood connects them. He's so smart.

"The mage is stronger than it seems." Who would believe that? "He will also live."

They smell kind of the same now –  _mage, elf, enemy and elder_. Similar with an undertone of individuality. Similar but she is still alone. Without the bastard she's all alone. _Bastard_. Bastard works. The mage is there but he doesn't understand things that well. The enemy is the enemy just like the elder is just an elder. They have the blood but cannot be companions.

She's alone and blood is the key.  _Ah well,_ he thinks prodding the forgotten goblet.  _What's the worst that can happen?_

"Assan! Assan, what is…?"

It _burns_. It burns like before, the day he bit too hard and too deep, the day he swallowed without remembering he's not supposed to. But it's worse this time, so much worse. It's like his body doesn't carry blood but liquid fire, up and down, from his head to every limb, paw and tail. It hurts because his elf is on her knees, shaking his form and yelling his name. "Assan, you stupid dog. Did he swallow? We need to…" Shut up. Shut up is a good idea.  _Ow_.

Unknown hands touch his neck, his fur, his ears, his mouth carefully in this make-shift examination. He is not a horse to be sold, moron. Not a horse. Not stupid.

His scent changes slowly, bitterly and in pain. Mabari cannot cry. Why does he feel that he can?

"You don't need to worry,” the elder declares. “He will also live."

 _To be a better Grey than you._ Assan tries to bark but whines like a pup. Undignified.

His elf taps his head strongly –  _ow_  – her expression annoyed while iron replaces the bitter flavor which now they share. Angry. Iron is always her anger. "You foolish dog. It better be hurting." There's iron for anger, there's salt for worry and sadness –  _why sad?_  – and underneath it all, very deep, so hidden he can only feel it when she places his head on her lap, there is something like grass. Wild. Happy. Belonging.

The right thing. See? He knows it.

"You foolish silly dog."

Smart. Smart dog, much smarter than you, than him, definitely more than him and even him. One day, they will understand. Younglings.

Assan closes his eyes slowly. When he sleeps, he dreams of lowlands.

 


	31. toes.

031\. _toes_.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Whoever brought Shianni to the Palace needs to answer to him. Really. Really really. The blasted woman is bloody scary. Just look at her, all glaring and pointy ears and uh, scary. The woman is scary. Small but scary. Maybe he shouldn't say she's small, she might have the whole dagger stuff around but still. He is supposed to be the King now. Aren't people supposed to give him a little respect now? Kingly stuff? Perks of the job?

"If you harm my cousin again, I will beat you to an inch of your life! I will string you in the Alienage tree by your toes and call the children to use you as a target for practice! By the way, they tell us not to carry weapons? We don't care. Daggers are easy to slip into places."

He opens his mouth to tell her so but huh, yes. Glaring. She's very good at it.

"And don't you even think I wouldn't be able to do it!" In this moment, he's thinking nothing but self-preservation. Self-preservation says be quiet. He stays quiet.  _Good boy_ , whispers his mind. Female, by the way. Maker, why is his mind female? Is he jumping the fence…? "It's bad enough that she makes you a King and then you just bite her head off, yes, I heard the story and no, I didn't hear from her. The dwarf told me! A dwarf. I highly doubt he'd thought it'd be funny to lie to me." _Actually._  Hm. He would. Not that he's lying now, that is. He did act a little stuck-up? But she conscripted  _Loghain_  of all people!

Again, Alistair tries to open his mouth to voice that particular comment when a finger is stuck on his face, close enough to blind him if she moves just a little forward. Let's not move. Let's not speak. Let's not breathe. He likes his looks and wearing an eye patch would make him the most ridiculous king after. Well, after Cailan. Not to offend his brother or anything except he sort of  _was_. In his defense, he lived as Grey Warden enough to know they are no such thing as great heroes of legend. Fade,  _he_  became one. Tasha become one. Isn't that enough for his late brother to draw his conclusions? If he wasn't, you know, very dead.

"When she comes back."  _If she comes back_ , he wants to say. Only, once again, might not be a good idea. Angry female, family, daggers, personal safety, better not to risk it. "When she comes back, you will apologize. You will ask for forgiveness for all the stupid things you obviously did ever since you met her, then for the things you didn't do and then for obviously harming her just because she had a cool head on her shoulders. And  _saved_  someone!  _A life_! Are we clear?"

Any clearer and she might become transparent. Maker, do they feed needles to elves as they grow up? Prickly people, they are.

"I asked if we are clear?"

Someone is snickering. If that's Eamon, he'll kill something. Or first stare, because the image of  _Eamon_  snickering is enough to give him nightmares and _then_ he'll kill something. Darkspawn abound, lovely frustration release.  _It's probably Teagan. A servant? Someone listening in?_ Shianni prods his forehead –  _the nails, woman. The bloody nails_  – and he remembers again that she asked something. A moment and he's nodding like his head is about to fall if he doesn't. Elves, crazy, stuff can happen.

"Good," she replies, a nod in answer to his own. "Good. Then I'll… be going now." Oh thank you, dear Maker, thank you. But he's still placing humans serving him his tea. Elves are prickly people with  _connections_. And daggers are easy to slip.  _She was the one to say it!_

Shianni turns on her heels so fast that he almost gets whiplash. Which is fine. Faster she moves, faster she's out, sooner he'll be out of danger. Only she doesn't exactly leave. She turns to his uncle, very slowly, very carefully, very dangerously and he suddenly has the impression everything up until now was nothing more than warm up.

"And you." Oh yes. Definitely warm up. Why isn't Teagan sweating? He'd be sweating. Wait. Wait, why the verbal slash visual threats to  _Teagan_?

His uncle lowers his head in the barest nod, giving her his whole attention and an almost embarrassed smile. Calm, always calm, blasted man. He makes her deflate for a whole total of two seconds.

"You, I will not leave for others." Creepy tone, creepy. Maker, this woman is just creepy all around. Get her and Morrigan in a room and they'll just combust the place into flames. Or ice it.  _Or nail each other to death_ ,  _can he watch?_  "I have seen what nobles do to our kind. And she may be blinded now, but she's seen it too. She won't stop me."

Another nod, deeper this time and Alistair doesn't understand what is going on –  _though he has this nagging suspicion it is very obvious and he should understand._ No one asks him for help, unspoken or otherwise, so he keeps quiet. The woman might remember he exists.

"So. We are clear. I must take my leave." Oh thank you, thank you,  _thank you, dear Andraste_. "I trust you'll remember my words." In nightmares, even. The Archdemon will have her voice. "Then I'm off. Have a good day." And she tops it all with the kindest smile he has seen on her – which is really not saying much since she never did smile when he's around – before leaving like someone who just came by for tea.

Silence falls to replace her.

"Toes?" Alistair manages to say, in between wishing for her to keep walking and forget he exists. Teagan gives him a light shrug –  _amused, the odd man is actually amused_. Huh.

"Just be grateful she didn't remember more sensible parts." Silence. "Lampposts, I believe you called them. Your fault, Eamon?"

Once upon a time, Alistair wanted a family. In this moment, he wants it dead, extended and all.

 


End file.
